


Hell, Glory and Everything in Between

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Universe, Inaccurate descriptions of magical Creatures, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining, Potterlock, Serious Injuries, Sherlock AU, Teenlock, not Sherlock or John though don't worry, the year is about 2009-ish, they're both idiots, third person, tri-wizard tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 57,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5961841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it is announced that Hogwarts will be hosting the Tri-wizard tournament, neither John nor Sherlock have any idea on just how much the tournament will affect their relationship, and the world around them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

If there's one thing John Watson could never get used to, it's how crowded platform nine and three quarters always was. He had been told that there were approximately only three thousand wizards in Britain (which, for a country with a population of forty million, is relatively little) and it felt like they all gathered on this little platform every year on September 1st. For someone who generally preferred smaller crowds, this was always distressing. His chest felt a little tighter, the heat became a little more noticeable, the air felt thin and empty. The worst was in John's first year; scared, alone with no one except his pet owl (his parents and older sister were on the other side of the wall) and hundreds of people constantly bumping into his trolley. Even when he was on the train the eleven year old could feel the heavy stare of other kids over his old scuffed trainers and second-hand jeans and the jumper his mum knitted when he was nine. Eventually, he found a friend. A tall boy with dark curly hair and an ability to know his entire life story through one glance settled the boy's nerves. He didn't feel quite so lost afterwards. 

Of course, now John was in his sixth year it was all fine. He could dodge the people and see through the smoke emanating from the red train easily. What was a little heat and claustrophobia compared to the relief of being back in the wizarding world?

John hopped onto the train and walked through the corridor, dragging his suitcase behind him. He looked through one, two, three, four compartments until he found the one he was looking for. Or at least, the person in it. 

The sound of the compartment door opening did not rouse the boy lying on the seats, who was stretching his gangly legs so that one had to hang over the edge. He was reading. A large leather bound book entitled "Half-blood, two paths" covered the boy's face so that only a few ebony curls stuck out of the top. John grinned. He was yet to be disappointed with a different greeting. Or in fact, a greeting.

"What are you reading?" John asked as he sat down opposite, as though five minutes, rather than five weeks, had passed since their last meeting (John staying over at the Holmes family's home.)

"You can read John," a deep voice said behind the book, "Look at the spine and see what you can deduce from the letters."

"Ha-ha." John rolled his eyes, "I meant, what is it about?"

"Oh,it's dull. Mother gave it to me. She says as a half-blood I have a responsibility to choose between the muggle world and the wizarding world." The boy put the book down with an air of disgust, "Can't see why I can't have both. But only the good bits."

"Sherlock Montanna." John muttered.

"What?"

"Oh, it's a muggle TV show - Never mind. You wouldn't know it... How was your summer, Sherlock?"

"Dull."

"For someone with such a high IQ, you don't have a very extended vocabulary. I think you use that word more than anything else."

"Shut up."

"Those two come a close second, though."

Sherlock chuckled, a sound which went straight to John's chest. It was a nice sound, if rarely heard. That's probably why he appreciated it so much. "Well, for someone who plans on being a doctor, you don't have a good sense of hygiene. You've been avoiding washing the back of your right hand since you got home from France three days ago."

John grinned, "Oh? You're deducing me so soon into the journey?" The train had only just left the station.

"Yes. I know that you met a girl named Mary while you were in France. You were keen on her but you're not particularly bothered now. Also, you stayed up to finish a homework you had forgotten about last night. Probably charms."

"How did you do that then?"

"I can see pink glitter pen with a number and a name 'Mary' and a kiss afterwards on your hand. The number is distinctly European and for a mobile phone. The fact you left it on and refused to wash it off shows you were keen, but you have not added the number to your phone yet. You're procrastinating, most likely because you're not as keen on her as she was of you, but you feel bad. You don't like long distance relationships."

"Okay, that I get so far. What about the fact I was in France? I never told you."

"Yes, that's because you like watching me deduce you. Really, John, I'd have thought you'd be bored of it by now."

"Never." John smiled truthfully. A strange look passed over Sherlock's face, but it was gone and replaced with a serious 'I'm concentrating and very clever' face before John could identify it.

"There was an odd interval for a week until three days ago when you didn't text me very much. I deduced you were abroad, because there is always bad signal and texts cost more, so you refrain from using your phone so much. I knew it was France because you have a distinct tan. You were sunbathing. Your family rarely leaves Britain due to financial issues, but they went abroad this year. Nowhere fancy, though. Nowhere which would require flight. So there's no other option than France."

"Brilliant!" John smiled. "You got that all right."

"Good. I hate it when I'm wrong."

"Oh, so do I. It makes you sulk."

"I don't sulk." Sherlock frowned stubbornly.

"Trust me, you do. Now, how about that deduction about the charms homework I did last night?"

Sherlock inhaled. "You have obvious bags under your eyes and shaky hands from drinking multiple cups of coffee this morning. Therefore you stayed up later than usual. You have ink smudged over your hand from writing; it was an essay. I knew it was charms because you hate charms. You find it useless and dull. Well, you also find potions dull but you want to become a wizard-doctor. It requires newts in potions, so you wouldn't leave it until the last minute. So charms it is." Sherlock finally exhaled.

"Fantastic!"

"Meretricious. There's also the obvious fact that at three this morning you texted me an entire rant about the pointlessness of charms at this stage in your student career."

Sherlock got out his phone and showed it to John. On it read a message John barely remembered sending.

3:01am - Whats the point in doing charms anyway we know all the useful stuff when am I ever going to turn a teacup into a mouse I hope if Molly becomes a teacher here she sorts it out because I'm sick to death of it I wish it was our last year but nooo we're stuck in our ducking sixth year the most pointless uninteresting year I hate this 

"Oh." 

"Honestly John, your grammar is appalling. If this is what it's like sober I hope you never drunk text me. I doubt my brain cells would survive reading it." 

"Shut up." John laughed.

"Also, 'ducking' is an interesting choice of adjective." Sherlock smirked.

John sighed, "Ducking autocorrect."

Sherlock laughed and it stabbed at John's chest even more. A sardonic chuckle was one thing: a genuine laugh was so rare and so beautiful-sounding John always smiled back. If he could, he would bottle that laugh so that he could listen to it whenever his dad started drinking or Harry was shouting the house down. 

John quickly realised that no one had spoken for several seconds and that they had been staring at each other for just as long. He cleared his throat. 

"So, what did you do over the summer?" He asked.

"Nothing much. Read this and a bunch of other books about future careers - Mother's doing. There was a serial killer making his way around Sussex, but the police refused to let me help. Idiots."

"Yeah, I'd bet. That's it then? Read some books and got rejected by the police?"

"Well, I tried spying on Mycroft." Sherlock said, "He's head boy now, so he's been sorting out... Stuff. He's helping to organise something, but he refused to tell me what it was. It's probably dull, but I was so bored I didn't have any other choice than to find out what it was."

"And did you?" John asked. 

"Oh yes. I have no idea what it is though. Something like a - tournament? With two other schools. I don't know. Dull."

John sat up. "Is it the tri-wizard tournament?"

"Yes, I think so. Why?"

"Why? God, Sherlock, you really need to get out more. It's the tri-wizard tournament! Hogwarts will be hosting!" John said excitedly, looking at Sherlock for a reaction. He just frowned in confusion. John sighed.

"Sherlock, do you remember in our first year when a bunch of sixth and seventh year students went missing?" He emphasised the last word by making quotation marks with his hands, "Around October time?"

"No I was caught up in the case of the poisoned pumpkin juice and Violet Finnley's case around that time." Sherlock frowned, a silent 'obviously' hanging in the air.

John opened his mouth to explain, then stopped and sighed, "Never mind. They'll explain it in assembly. I'm too -" he yawned, "- tired to go over it." 

"You should probably sleep then." Sherlock said. "You slept for three hours last night and we'll be arriving at Hogwarts in 2 more hours. I'll wake you when we're nearly there."

John smiled tiredly as he leaned against the window. "Since when did you care about my well being?"

Sherlock broke eye contact and looked out of the window. "You'd be surprised."

John's last thought before he fell asleep was whether Sherlock looking away was intentional, and what word could identify the colour of Sherlock's eyes. He settled on a word he once heard some time ago - "resplendent". He wasn't even 100% what it meant - he just knew it was right.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock is playing a game he vaguely remembers from his childhood - airplanes? Yes. He's running, laughing, his arms spread as he avoids tripping over the small mounds in the field near his house. He looks over to his right - John's there, playing airplanes with him, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. John's hair looks surprisingly attractive in this lighting...

Suddenly, Sherlock was violently pulled out of dream-land into the real world as a beam of light flashed in front of his closed eyelids. A lumos maxima charm, obviously. He grimaced and, as the light began to fade, shaded his eyes with his hand and attempted to identify the idiot who decided to wake him.

"Ah, you're both awake," a familiar sarcastic female voice said, "have a good nap, sleeping beauties?"

Sherlock heard John groan. Squinting, he saw him rub his eyes tiredly. "Molly, could you not - " a yawn - "Could you not wake us up by, I don't know, shouting? Nudging us? Anything which doesn't blind us?"

"Can you see me?" Molly asked, "yes? Then I didn't blind you." With a flick of her wand, both John's and Sherlock's suitcases opened and their school robes dropped in front of them. Sherlock observed that her summoning charm was improving. "Go and get changed. We get there in 15 minutes." And she was gone in a blur of black and yellow robes, her brunette ponytail swishing behind her.

"Who spat in her butterbeer," John muttered, gathering his robes up. 

Sherlock hummed. 

"You were supposed to wake me you know," John said as they left the compartment. 

"And you're always saying I should sleep more," Sherlock retorted. "It's rather hypocritical, actually. I wasn't the one who stayed up until three doing charms homework received two months ago." 

John chuckled, "Touché." 

~

Fifteen minutes later, the two hopped off the train to be greeted by Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade - a fellow Gryffindor and quidditch player of John's.

"Are you two recovered yet?" Greg grinned, as they walked from the platform to the carriages.

"You mean from Molly attempting to blind us to get our attention? On the one hand, I've stopped seeing spots," Molly and John chuckled, "however, I am ninety-nine per cent sure that you have permanently damaged my corneas, so - "

"Retinas."

Sherlock turned to John, "what?"

"The retinas get damaged when exposed to bright - oh, never mind." John blushed and looked at his feet.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I don't mind being corrected, you know. As long as it is actually correct." He murmured. 

There was an awkward hiatus, during which Sherlock did not fail to notice the - knowing? - eye contact Molly and Greg made. Then Greg cut in, "so - uh - John? I'm guessing you're still gonna be a healer? Or a... Muggle healer?"

"What? Oh, I don't know. Probably a healer in the wizarding world but my mum wants me to take a muggle course in basic medical care..."

As John finished talking, they hopped on to the self-drawn carriages (which Sherlock was almost certain that it was just an invisible creature drawing it. Not that he knew why. Couldn't they hire other wizards or squibs to drive it? Or invent a spell that actually self-draws the carriages?) and conversation diverted from dull to mind-numbing, so Sherlock closed his eyes and started to wonder how badly injured he would be if he happened to fall out of the carriage at this speed.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock hummed without opening his eyes.

"Greg asked about your holiday."

"I heard." He didn't.

"Are you... going to respond?"

"Yes. To answer your question, it was dull. The most interesting thing to happen was serial murders but the police wouldn't let a sixteen year old get involved."

"Shame." Sherlock could hear Molly's eye roll. "Anything else?"

"I found out that Mycroft's involved in some - tournament thingy."

"Oh, you mean the tri-wizard tournament?"

"What?!" Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at Greg, "How do you know about that?"

"Mycroft told me."

"What do you mean he told you, he didn't tell me."

"He is his boyfriend, Sherlock."

"Besides, he did tell you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion, "Sorry?"

"He did. You even replied. Something along the lines of 'I don't care, go away, I have an experiment to complete and your presence will affect the results." Except with more insults."

"And when would he have told you this?"

"Fourth weekend of the summer holidays. He told me when he stayed over for a few nigh -." 

"Okay, I get it." Sherlock grimaced, "I must have deleted it. It doesn't matter. Stop talking."

Fortunately, the topic of discussion moved on, and Sherlock could retreat to his mind palace again.

~

The carriage finally arrived and the four of them walked into the great hall, walking off to their houses' tables; Greg and John sat on the Gryffindor table on the far right, Sherlock sat with the Ravenclaws next to them and Molly sat with the Hufflepuffs. Sherlock observed from a distance as Greg and John sat there talking (probably about the girl John met on holiday. Heterosexual boys - or bisexual, in Lestrade's case - rarely talked about much else. Sherlock pondered whether sexuality could affect IQ, and if he was straight, if his IQ would be affected ) until the doors to the Great Hall opened and Professor Flitwick walked in, leading in the first years, who were only a little taller than himself. Sherlock saw some of the girls 'aww'ing at the smaller first years, including Molly, to which he responded with an eye-roll and the critical, yet truthful, self-reminder that all the first years would be the same as the previous years': loud, stupid and annoying. He then remembered that, actually, all years in Hogwarts were like that. 'The sooner seventh year comes and goes, the better,' he thought bitterly.

The first years gathered at the front and Flitwick stood on a box next to an old, pointed, black, Wizards' hat - the sorting hat. 

"Now, when I call your name," Flitwick called out in a voice louder than most people expected, "Step up and sit down on the stool, and you will be sorted into your various houses. Afterwards sit down at the respective house's table." 

Flitwick went through a list of 100 students: from 'Abyss, Michael' (ravenclaw- Sherlock didn't respond as enthusiastically as his fellow housemates when the boy sat down at their table), to 'Gregson, Violet' (Hufflepuff), to 'Williams, Daniel,' (slytherin). Eventually the list ended and Professor Mcgonagall - a woman of around eighty- stood up. The noise dimmed. 

"Welcome everyone, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Mcgonagall spoke in a voice which seemed to command, and welcome, the room at once. "My name is Professor Mcgonagall and I am headmistress of Hogwarts. I would like to say a few words. First of all, Mr Filch has announced his retirement for the end of the year." The room erupted into cheers and applause. Even Mcgonagall had a sly smile of relief on her face. "I'm sure we all wish him - and Mrs Norris - the best of luck in their years to come. However retirement has not stopped Mr Filch from reminding all first years to not go into the forbidden forest, and everyone to not go to the right door on the third floor. I have more announcements to make, but for now, let's enjoy the delicious meals our chefs have cooked."

A sigh of relief swept across the hall as the students - and teachers - tucked ravenously into the food. Sherlock simply picked up a bread roll and picked crumbs off it. He looked over at the gryffindor table, where John was laughing at something Lestrade said and eating. John then looked over and made eye contact with Sherlock. Oddly, his stomach jolted. John then nodded towards the - now almost completely disintegrated - bread roll in Sherlock's hand. 

'Are you going to eat that?' John and Sherlock had become experts at unspoken communication over the years. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a bite.. He smiled sarcastically, his mouth full. 'Happy?'

John raised an eyebrow and glanced at the rest of the food on the ravenclaw table. 'Eat something else and I will be. You barely eat.' 

Sherlock begrudgingly took a chicken drumstick and nibbled at it. 'I don't enjoy this part of our dynamic.'

'Tough. Eat up and I may consider treating you like an adult.' 

'John, you truly spoil me.'

At that point, John got caught up in conversation with Mike Stamford, so the conversation stopped there. Sherlock frowned into his plate, then took another bite, hoping slightly that John would see.


	3. Chapter 3

After the meal was finished and disappeared Mcgonagall stood up again and the hall went silent. "This year, there is going to be a few changes. First of all, there will be no quidditch practices or matches - "

A chorus of boos and groans rang out from all corners of the room. Sherlock glanced at John - who was a big quidditch fanatic and Gryffindor's team captain - and was relieved to know that rather than joining in with the other idiots in the room, he had a knowing smirk on his face. The expression rather suited him; it made John look more intelligent. The students kept talking and complaining until - 

"Silence!" The hall obeyed. "I know you all must be very disappointed, but believe me when I say it is for a very good cause. This year, Hogwarts will be host to the tri-wizard tournament." That was when people started to realise what was going on and responded excitedly - chatting and grinning amongst themselves. 

"For those of you who don't know," mcgonagall said over the noise, as it began to die down, "the tri-wizard tournament is a historical tradition which goes back hundreds of years. Every five years, one school - in this case, Hogwarts - is host to two other schools. The schools each have one volunteer, one champion, to compete in a set of three exciting, and sometimes dangerous tasks. The prize for the winner is ten thousand galleons - " almost everyone gasped - " - and the tri-wizard cup."

At that point, a large case embellished in gold and silver was placed next to Mcgonagall. Dull theatrics. 

You're the drama queen here, Sherlock, the little John-voice in his mind said. 

"But how are these champions selected? Well, starting from the fifth of October, students who wish to compete will put in their names for them to be selected out of this - " with a flick of her wand, The case melted away and was left with a large goblet, with blue flames coming out of the top. The audience ooh'd. 

"Anyone in sixth year and up will be able to enter but the deadline ends on the 12th of October. On the thirteenth, the champions will be selected. Fair warning, though," Mcgonagall glared around the room, "Once you are chosen, you can not go back. Although the danger-level of the tasks have been reduced over the years, it is still dangerous. But the rewards, I'm sure you will all agree, are worth it." 

On that note, Mcgonagall finished her speech and everyone left the hall to go to their dorms. Late that night, when Sherlock lay wide awake on his bed, he pondered over the tournament.

Money, glory and danger.

It's perfect John Watson bait. 

~

Sherlock went down to breakfast the following morning at 7am. He sat with John and Lestrade - as long as there were no visitors and it was not the first assembly of the term, houses were encouraged to mix - and poured cornflakes into a bowl, only to stir it and watch it turn soggy in the milk. 

"You entering the tournament, John?" He heard Lestrade ask. 

"Definitely." John grinned, "Danger? Prizes? What's not to love?"

"Forced socialising between schools, the Yule ball - which is obligatory to go to, the fact that Lord Voldemort returned at the 1994 to 95 tournament, that it was cancelled for a century before 1994 due to someone dying. Also, someone died during that tournament, and the tournament didn't come back until 2000 due to the Battle of Hogwarts and the following damaging." Sherlock snapped. John and Greg looked up at Sherlock, half amused, half bored. "Sorry," Sherlock murmured, quickly pouring himself the coffee and sipping it. "Go ahead. Enter if you want."

Greg smiled sarcastically, "Aw, he cares about our safety!"

"I really don't."

Greg ruffled Sherlock's hair, knowing full well that Sherlock detested it. "Well, we'll take your advice into consideration when we enter. Right, John?"

"Sherlock, giving advice?" A smooth voice said behind Sherlock. "My goodness, I didn't think his social skills could extend so far."

Sherlock turned and glared at the boy behind him. "Mycroft. Did you just come down here to insult me?"

"Now why would I do that?" Mycroft smiled, with a tinge of repressed bitterness as he sat down next to Lestrade and opposite John. "Good morning, John. Gregory."

"Morning, Mycroft." Lestrade smiled back, so disgustingly sweet Sherlock almost physically gagged. They had been dating since around May last year, and Sherlock could never decide whether it was an improvement or not. On the one hand, there was no more depressing pining from both parties, or side-long glances mirroring that of a damsel in distress in those overrated muggle cartoon films about princesses and a mouse named Michael. But now they were dating, there are more open displays of affection, like flirting (more than beforehand) and holding hands. Once, when Lestrade came to visit, he heard them in the night - doing... Stuff. He had never felt so regretful that his bedroom was right next to Mycroft's. Ugh. 

"I'm guessing you're not thinking of entering the tournament, Sherlock?"

"God, no."

"Fine. All the more chance for me and Greg." John said. 

At that moment, the heads of houses handed out the lesson schedules for the year. John had barely glanced over his schedule before groaning. 

"I have charms next. With the hufflepuffs."

"Careful, John," Sherlock said, amused, "Molly is a Hufflepuff. If it weren't for her, you would be getting 'P's in divination and charms."

"I know, Molly's nice. But everyone else is so dull." John kept reading his schedule. "Oh, we have potions together, Sherlock! But I then have herbology with the slytherins."'

"Oh the woes of being young." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, you're only a year older than Sherlock." Greg pointed out, "Besides, I'm older than you. So stop with the whole 'martyred parent' act."

"Physically, you are older. Mentally, on the other hand..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, muttering some excuse, left the table. There's only so much socialising he could do in one day, and frankly, that plus all the lessons he'd have that day, was enough. 

~

Apparently two months away from Hogwarts did not increase the IQ of other people. In first period, History of Magic, a slytherin student called Anderson asked whether Rendeliv the third was a real person, just after a lecture on him. Afterwards Sally Donovan shouted insults at him all throughout Arithmancy. This surprisingly did not stop after he pointed out the obvious fact that she was cheating on her boyfriend with two other boys. Third and fourth period was completely dull and useless. But finally fifth came, which meant potions with John Watson.

Potions was definitely Sherlock's favourite subject. For one thing, it was the wizarding equivalent to chemistry, which Sherlock had always excelled at. Also, potions had almost always been shared between gryffindor. Potions was a lot better with John working with him because unlike most, John wasn't an idiot. He was also funny. And had a good singing voice, the few times he heard little hums and muttering of lyrics from songs he'd never heard of.

Sherlock was one of the first students to arrive. He sat down at the second desk from the front - so that neither he nor John would be picked on while still avoiding the imbeciles at the back - and only waited two minutes before John sat next to him. 

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock could never tell if he was genuinely concerned or if it was just a conversation starter. Probably the latter. 

"Fine. Anderson was an idiot, as normal. Donovan was being overly sensitive and a boy nearly set the transfiguration class room on fire. You?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately my day wasn't nearly as interesting. Trelawney predicted some stuff about me, but it's probably all bullshit."

"Oh?" Sherlock smirked. 

"She said to 'beware of old acquaintances' and that I will 'be in grave danger'." John scoffed. "When is anyone not in grave danger with that woman?" 

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply with a sarcastic comment, when Professor Slughorn walked in and greeted the room.

"Good afternoon, class. Welcome to sixth year potions. Today we will be making a potion called Amortentia..."

Sherlock leaned over and whispered to John. "I've worked out what you're in danger of."

"Oh?"

"Boredom. If we carry on making such dull potions." 

Sherlock heard John stifle a giggle, and smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

If there was one thing John learnt in the time he was waiting for October fifth to arrive, it was that nothing is as agonisingly painful as waiting an entire month to write your name on a piece of paper and put it in a cup in order for it to choose you to compete in a dangerous tournament in which you could die. He tried not thinking about it and focusing on the fact that his NEWTS- an important qualification- is next academic year, but his brain decided that that wasn't nearly as important as the tournament. So he tried crossing off days on a calendar, until he got bored and realised the pointlessness of it all. 

Thankfully, the wait was shorter than John expected. On October fourth, the day before he could enter, the other schools arrived.

He and Sherlock were walking about the grounds, talking as normal, when Sherlock stopped suddenly looked up.

"What is it?" John asked 

"Oh, nothing. It's just that there's a carriage and horses flying over our heads."

John looked up, only to catch a glimpse before the carriage and horses disappeared from sight. "What was that?"

"Beuxbatons. Come on, we'll get a better view from the astronomy tower."

Jogging to catch up with his friend's long strides, John followed Sherlock through the grounds and up the stairs to the tower.

"Wouldn't it be quicker," John panted, "to go to the bridge?"

"Everyone else will be there. Hurry up John, or I will feel forced to carry you."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

They eventually arrived at the tower and looked over the lake. Sure enough, flying above them and due to land soon, was a carriage, silhouetted by the orange sunset, flown by multiple flying horses. Because, what other way is there to travel an entire school to another country?

"Bit small, isn't it? If it's carrying a whole school."

"It's probably bigger on the inside. Besides, only people who want to enter or want to watch the tournament are coming. Even then there was probably a limit to who could come. One hundred, perhaps."

"Oh." 

The carriage had barely flown out of sight before, from the very centre of the lake, a mast appeared from the middle of the lake. John nudged Sherlock and pointed to it as it grew and grew until it became a ship. (In hindsight, John realised that the ship was just emerging from underwater, and that he probably should have had more sleep the night before.). 

"Durmstrang?"

"Yep."

"They like to show off, don't they?"

"John, Beuxbatons has just arrived in a bright blue carriage, which would defy the laws of physics in order to carry all their visiting students, drawn by flying horses. This is a big ship which can go underwater, so basically a submarine. Durmstrangs aren't the show offs here."

John chuckled, "I guess it could be some kind of metaphor for the schools and the people in them: Durmstrang are silent and stealthy and dark and could probably kill you; Beuxbatons are elegant and graceful on the outside, but there's more to them than meets the eye."

"How poetic." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So how will Hogwarts travel, according to your theory?"

"Whichever mode of transport cares the least about kids' safety." 

John watched as Sherlock laughed, the orange sun beams from the sunset dancing on his pale face (John tried to imagine Sherlock with a tan: it didn't work). He couldn't help but appreciate that even though Sherlock hated most people, he liked John, and John made him laugh. It was an honourable position to be in.

They stood in silence as the sun got lower and lower, watching the ship approach the edge of the lake, as students wearing warm military-like uniform load out, until John's eyes widened in remembrance. "Shit. Sherlock, we have to go." 

"What?"

"Meeting the students!"

They ran down the stairs and across the grounds. John recalled the notice from Mcgonagall telling everyone to go down to the lake. 'She's going to be so pissed' John muttered to himself.

John wasn't sure how late they arrived at the lake compared to everyone else. All he was aware of was of how everyone was staring at them - including Mcgonagall, with a cold, but mildly amused glare - and that he was probably very red and sweating from the running.

"Nice of you two to join us - Mr Holmes, Watson." Mcgonagall said with a sardonic tone. "If you two could please straighten yourselves out and at least try and behave civilly to our guests - that means you, Holmes," Sherlock scowled discreetly, "then maybe I will let you off detention."

As the other students stood waiting and talking quietly amongst themselves, Molly leaned towards Sherlock, "Where were you two? I was worried you were swimming in the lake or dying or something."

"That was for a case, Molly, I don't swim if I can choose to." Sherlock sighed.

"Avoiding the question, Holmes?" A female voice said from behind. They turned around. "I wonder why?"

"What are you implying, Donovan?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you aren't still offended from me noticing the obvious fact that - "

"As a matter of fact, she is." A boy with greasy black hair standing next to Donovan said. "You could try - y'know - being nicer..."

"Leave it, Phillip, you're not helping." Donovan muttered. She then turned to glare at Sherlock. "As I was saying, I know where you two were."

"Mmh-hm. Sure, Sally." Molly scoffed.

"Freak here isn't the only one with deduction skills. And I deduce," Donovan smirked, "You two were off in some dark corner somewhere, shagging."

John felt his cheeks turn crimson. "No! We weren't - we're not - "

"Come on, it's pretty obvious. You two are glued by the hip, like, ninety percent of the time. You're both red and sweaty and out of breath - you more than him - and... your flies are down."

John felt his cheeks burn further as he did up his flies. "We weren't, I swear - circumstantial evidence - Sherlock?!"

"As well reasoned as your deductions were - " John stammered something out to protest, "they were wrong. But I don't suppose Anderson here knows about you and Felix Middleton?"

"Felix who?"

"No one, Phil." Donovan glared at Sherlock.

"Sshh, they're here!" Everyone shut up at Molly's voice, and watched as Beuxbatons landed their blue carriage and Durmstrang walked out from the ship. 

The Durmstrangs had a certain military-like stance as they walked out onto the decks. They all wore red uniform - reminiscent of the stereotypical east European soldier- with a black leather belt, used as a holster, most likely, for their wands. Their hats and shirts were lined with furs; John was unsure whether this was the norm, or if their teachers had simply exaggerated the cold rainy British weather, and this was their defence. John craned his neck to look at the approaching students - and he had to admit that lots of them seemed, well, attractive, or at least, they stood out compared to the Hogwarts students he had known for five years. But all of them - boys, girls, younger students, older students- looked capable of and ready to beat every other student in a fight, wands optional.  
A tall man, whom John guessed to be the teacher, strolled out last. He wore a similar belt and fur-lined costume, except black. John couldn't quite see his face from where he was standing, but even at his distance he sensed where the other students gained their arrogance and strength from. 

The Beuxbatons all walked out with a similar atmosphere of sophistication, superiority and elegance. They climbed out of the carriage, heads held high and John was surprised that not one of them tripped up or did anything other than graceful. Unlike the Durmstrangs, they all wore clothes suited to much warmer weather than the current state. It was bright blue, silk-like material - boys wearing black trousers and waistcoats with a blue shirt, while girls wore blue dresses - which John would have envied if it weren't for the fact that all of them were shivering. And he probably would have looked like a prat in that colour.   
The students climbed out one by one - each wearing the same expression of discomfort and cold - until the last one, who John was somehow drawn to, in the sense that she induced a sense of de ja vu. He frowned and studied her short blonde curls, and pale complexion and her stance - 

Oh, God. 

Mary.


	5. Chapter 5

John looked down at his feet instantly, praying that Mary didn't see him. She had told him before he left France to go home in August to call her, keep in touch, and he had said yes, he would. Now here they were nearly two months later in the same school, with the heavy knowledge that he had completely forgotten to call her. In fact, over the past few weeks, what with school work and the tournament, he had almost completely forgotten of her existence. What would she say to him, if she knew?  
What would he say to her, to explain if he crossed her path?  
Obviously the answer was to never actually cross her path.

But how was he to avoid a person for seven months straight, while they were both confined to the school? 

"Are your feet really that exciting," Sherlock asked, "Or are you sleeping?"

"Mary is here."

Sherlock paused, "who?"

"Mary Morstan," John looked up at Sherlock, "Remember? The girl who gave me her number but I forgot to call her?"

Sherlock shook his head. John sighed. "You deduced it on the train on the way here. You know: pink gel pen, feminine writing, I wasn't so keen on her." 

"I don't keep track of every deduction I make. I must have deleted it."

John sighed. "Doesn't matter. Either way we're going to end up crossing paths, and it will be really awkward and she'll either not remember me or be really angry or something..."

John trailed off and the rest of the students fell silent as a woman, who John assumed was the headmistress of Beuxbatons, walked towards Mcgonagall. Everyone fell into the same state of awe as they realised just how tall the headmistress of Beuxbatons was. 

"Good evening, Madam Maxime." John couldn't help but smile at the appropriateness of her name and wonder if it was a coincidence or not. "I hope you and your students had a pleasant flight."

"We did, zank you, Professor Migonagall." Madam Maxime emphasised every syllable. "Alzough, ze wezzer is... Colder zan my students and I expected."

"It's always colder than expected in Britain," Mcgonagall replied coolly, "Even to the people who live here. Why do you think we complain so much?"

Madam Maxime laughed, a high pitched "ha!" which John swore made the lake ripple slightly. "Indeed. Are ze Durmstrags 'ere?" 

"I believe they are coming just now."

John didn't really pay attention to the conversation between Mcgonagall and the Durmstrangs' headmaster, or the walk back to the castle (he tripped over multiple times, affection his plan to not draw attention to himself). When they got to the Great Hall, John noticed that the decorations had changed; the flags normally displaying Hogwarts' symbol, each either displayed the Durmstrang, Beuxbatons' or Hogwarts' symbol. There was an extra table added for the guests, which completely threw everyone off as they stood around awkwardly, waiting to be told where to sit. Luckily, Mcgonagall said that houses and guests were allowed to mix, and the hall descended into mild anarchy as students hunted their friends down and dragged them to a table. John, as per norm, sat with Sherlock, Greg, Mycroft and Molly at the front. Once everyone had sat down, the food appeared and everyone started eating ravenously (save Mycroft, who had been on a semi-permanent diet for the past two years, and Sherlock, whom John assumed gained his nutrition off the air and sarcasm). The sight of food appearing out of nowhere was familiar to the Hogwarts students, who saw this happen at least once a year (John actually still got a thrill from the sight, what with growing up in a muggle family his whole life), but the Beuxbatons and Durmstrang students gasped in delight, to which the Holmes' brothers chuckled at. John looked for Mary and found her sitting in the middle of the bench, talking to a brunette girl and smiling excitedly. John remembered liking her smile; the bright excited grin and slightly cruel smirk when she made a joke or John did something for her to laugh at. Even only a few days after their meeting, it seemed familiar, like an old friend... 

John wondered if he ever loved her, and if he would have now had they stayed in contact the past few months.

"What are you staring at?" Sherlock broke his train of thought. 

"Nothing. I was just thinking."

"I think the question you should be asking, Sherlock," Greg grinned, "is who he is staring at. Girl taken your fancy, John?"

"What? Oh, no. Well, not really... Remember the girl I met last summer?"

"Mary? Yeah."

John nodded then glanced pointedly at Sherlock, who sighed, then turned to Greg again, "She's here."

"What? Oh god." Greg shuffled towards John and craned his neck. "Which one is she?"

"Don't stare!" Molly hissed. "It's rude."

"The blonde in the middle talking to the brunette."

"Oh. Yeah, I see her. I must say, very good choice John. She seems nice."

Mycroft, John and Molly proceeded to glare at Greg. "What? I'm just saying."

"Gregory, you have a boyfriend sitting right opposite you!" 

"Can you not look at a girl without commenting on her looks? And then you boys wonder why we're so self conscious and 'obsessed with our looks' - "

"You're really not helping right now. What if she sees me? She's going to be so angry and - "

"Alright, alright!" Greg held his hands up in defence. "I'm sorry I made a comment which expressed an opinion. It didn't mean anything, Mycroft, and Molly: you don't have to turn everything everyone says into a feminist thing!"

As the conversation proceeded to turn into a debate about equality and politics (which, to John's surprise, Sherlock was actually taking part in), John's attention turned to the teachers, whose conversations he was somehow able to hear above the constant murmurs of the other students. 

"I must say, Mcgonagall," the Durmstrang headmaster, a young man with slicked back hair, said, "Hogvarts really has put ze effort in zis year. Is it to compensate?"

"Whatever do you mean, Karlssen?"

"Vell, ve all know vhat happened last time Hogvarts hosted." His voice was sickly and slippery and his cold hard mouth seemed stuck in a permanent smirk. "Sixteen years ago. I vas a young teacher at ze time, barely began my career. I remember reading about it, hearing people's accounts of it; You-Know-Who's return, ze death of a student - your own champion, may I add... I hope you have been spending at least half of your budget and time on security as you have on... Decorations."

"Karlssen." Madam Maxime warned.

"Actually, you have no need for concern, Karlssen." Mcgonagall smiled coolly. "We have all the existing protective enchantments around the castle, and liquid from the Thief's Downfall has been added to everyone's drinks." 

"Thief's Downfall?" Asked Madam Maxime.

At that point John saw Hufflepuff girl stand up - coincidentally on cue - and attempt (and fail) to cover the newly-appeared large spot on her forehead. John felt a stab of sympathy for her as the Beuxbaton girls laughed cruelly at her. 

"Ah. Anti-acne potion, I assume." John heard Mcgonagall say. She turned to the confused faces of the guest teachers, "Oh yes. Thief's Downfall is a security measure at Gringott's. It removes enchantments: no polyjuice potion, and no disguises."

"No anti-acne potion eizer." Maxime tutted. 

"A necessary sacrifice." Mcgonagall shrugged, and John couldn't help but feel slightly scared at the sadistic smile Mcgonagall was wearing.

~

"Welcome, welcome," Mcgonagall called out across the hall, "To Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I would like to introduce, first of all, Beuxbatons Academy of Magic, and their headmistress, Madam Olympe Maxime," the hall clapped as the Beuxbatons students and the teacher stood up - Maxime's height was immediately emphasised - "And finally, to Durmstrangs' Institute, and their headmaster, Professor Benedikt Karlssen." 

"What a stupid name." Sherlock muttered as they clapped.

John stared at Sherlock, "Says the one named Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock huffed. "It's a family name."

"We all hope that you enjoy your time here, and that your stay is safe," John swore he saw Mcgonagall glance pointedly at Karlssen, "and comfortable. 

"The tri-wizard tournament is a tradition, one which has lasted hundreds of years. It celebrates the diversity of the wizarding world and cooperation between our countries. It celebrates achievement, determination, and friendly competition. This is why to enter is such a great honour: perhaps as great as winning.

"But there can be no champions without volunteers. So, starting tomorrow morning, any student in sixth year and above may enter their name into the tri-wizard cup here in the Great Hall. Only one from each school will be picked, but remember: once the Champions is chosen, there is no turning back. The Champions will be chosen at 8 pm on the thirteenth of October." Mcgonagall smiled. "Good luck."

~

John had rarely seen the Great Hall empty.

Of course, it wasn't entirely desolate; there were about thirty or so students gathered in a disorganised circle, and in the circle was the tri-wizard cup - its bright blue flame just visible above the crowd of heads. Every so often a student stepped forward, and everyone else would applaud, the loudest cheers being from the student's own school. But the benches had been moved to some place else, giving him an uneasy sense of unfamiliarity. Oddly it was this sight which suddenly induced a jolt of nerves in John.

"You sure you to do this?" Sherlock asked. His low voice grounded John. 

"Absolutely."

"It's dangerous."

"Never put me off before."

"You'll be getting a lot of attention."

John paused. "I can live with that."

"Everyone will know you."

"So?"

"Everyone including - "

"John?" 

John's eyes widened. His stomach twisted slightly and he had to restrain himself from groaning out loud. Forcing himself to turn around, he faced the girl who had just spoken, knowing full well who it was."

"My god, it is you!" The blonde girl smiled. Smiled?

"Well, speak of the devil," Sherlock whispered to John. He then spoke to the girl. "Mary, I assume?"

"Yes, did John mention me?" Mary shook Sherlock's outstretched hand with surprising geniality. "Oh, where is my memory, you must be Sherlock!" 

"Did John mention me?" Sherlock asked, surprised. 

"Of course. He told me all about your cleverness and your funny ways. Nothing too embarrassing, of course." Mary smiled.

"He doesn't get embarrassed." John said. "No shame. He's been known to insult everyone he meets and walk around in nothing but a sheet of he's in one of his moods." 

"Well, he hasn't insulted me yet."

"Give it time." John was only half joking. "So, um, I was going to..."

"Enter the tournament?" Mary asked, "Janine just did." Mary nodded to the brunette who John only just noticed. "This is Janine, by the way. Janine, c'est John - le garçon que je rencontrais vacances - et son ami, Sherlock." Mary switched flawlessly from French to English with ease. John had seen it before, and he still wasn't sure which was her first language. 

"Hello." Janine said, her French accent obvious. 

"She doesn't speak much English." Mary explained.

"Yeah. Look, Mary, I'd love to talk more, catch up and all, but I think I'd prefer to do it when I'm not about to enter a possibly-deadly tournament. Why don't we meet tomorrow morning here at breakfast?"

"Sure, okay. Would you mind if Janine came?"

"Yeah that's fine. Sherlock can keep her company. Right, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, though John could tell it was unwillingly. "My mother's family was French. We can... Converse, if we must."

Mary chuckled softly. "I think you and Janine will get along quite well. Good luck John." She kissed his cheek lightly. "Goodbye, Sherlock." 

John watched as they walked out of the Great Hall, heaving an irrepressible sigh of relief that that experience was far less awkward than imagined.

"John?" Sherlock snatched back John's attention. "Are you going to enter?"

John turned back around and nodded. Glancing back at Sherlock for encouragement, he nudged his way past the crowd of students. He crossed the silver circle surrounding the cup (an age-line, John remembered. He released a held-in breath as he successfully walked through without him spontaneously combusting, or whatever an age line would do if he was underage) and unwrapped a slip of paper with his name written on it. With his fingers crossed, he dropped the paper into the cup and just like that, he was officially a contender to be the Hogwarts champion.

The thought bothered him less than it probably should have.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please assume that from now on any conversation involving Janine is in French. 
> 
> Thank you all for all your comments/kudos!

"But why do you need me to come?" Sherlock hissed.

"Because," John sighed, "I need... Back up."

"Back up? In case she attacks you?" Sherlock scoffed.

"No. In case she gets mad or something, I don't know. Come on, Sherlock. You can be my... Wingman." Both John and Sherlock cringed.

"Never call me that again."

"Agreed. Please, Sherlock." The two stopped in the middle of the corridor. John was probably attempting to do some form of 'puppy eyes' (hopefully mockinglyy), as his eyes widened slightly and his head tilted, "For me?"

Sherlock scowled and sighed. "Fine. Just don't do that face again. It's disturbing."

John laughed. "Thank you. Besides, it might be fun for you. Mary has a friend." John emphasised the word friend in a way Sherlock didn't want to identify the meaning of. "Janine, remember?" 

"Not interested."

"Fine. Just sit there, be nice and talk occasionally."

The doors to the Great Hall opened before Sherlock could argue back. On the bench to the right, Mary and Janine were sitting next to each other and giggling. They looked up and Mary waved them over. Janine whispered something into Mary's ear, and Mary laughed. Sherlock didn't trust that.

"John!" Mary beamed, "Sit down. You too, Sherlock."

With one last glare at John, Sherlock sat in front of Janine, who gave Sherlock a smile. He ignored her and listened to Mary and John's conversation.

"So," Mary began, a slightly smug smile tugging at her lips. "Why didn't you call me, like I told you to?" 

"Oh, um - " John rubbed the back of his neck and looked down, "The thing is - I had lots of school work - " Lies. " - and I guess I accidentally washed your number off my hand - "

"John," Mary said lightly. She reaches over and put her hand over his. Sherlock knew the gesture was small and insignificant, but it seemed to tug at something in his chest. "It's okay. You don't have to lie."

"What?" 

"Oh, I can tell when people lie. You're very obvious. But on the matter at hand, I think we should just... Start again."

"Right. Okay. Yeah." John paused, "What does that mean?"

"Just forget all about it." Mary shrugged (her hand was still on John's and Sherlock was still uncomfortable), "I believe in fresh starts. And I think it will be nice for us," her voice changed and Sherlock's fist clenched at the added seduction and sweetness in her voice, "To renew everything."

The two stared at each other for longer than Sherlock would have liked. He cleared his throat. "Mary. You're - your English is good."

Mary retracted her hand (finally) and turned to face Sherlock. "Thank you, Sherlock." Her smile seemed colder than when facing John.

"Your accent, too. It's almost undetectable. I does make me wonder," Sherlock regained his cool mask, "whether you are French at all."

Mary's near-constant smile faltered for a second. "I'm not. I was British. Am. Whichever it is." Mary pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and looked up between John and Sherlock (mostly John) with the face of a reluctant martyr. "I grew up with my parents in the UK until I was about six. I don't remember much about my childhood. But I know I was happy.

"One weekend I was staying at my aunt's house. My parents were on holiday. One day my Aunt got an owl and when she read the letter she started crying. It turned out that," Mary took a shallow breath, though her facial features were composed and calm, "They died. In a car crash,"

"Oh my god." John breathed.

"I'm sorry Mary." Sherlock murmured. 

"It's okay." Mary smiled sadly. "You didn't know. And I need to get these things off my chest now and then. Besides, it all worked out in the end. My aunt took me in, we moved to France, I studied my magic at Beuxbatons. It's all fine."

"It is." Now it was John's turn to reach his hand across the table and grab Mary's. Somehow this was way, way worse. 

"What's going on, Mary?" Janine asked in French. 

"My parents." Mary answered back and Janine nodded in understanding. 

The conversation drifted down other tangents. Janine attempted to talk to Sherlock, but when she realised that Sherlock would rarely give more than a one or two-word answer, she gave up and chatted on to Mary.   
Sherlock watched and observed. He had deduced things about Mary long ago: only child, left handed, short sighted, likes baking. She had a good sense of humour, judging from her chats with Janine, and she was clever. There was nothing there to be disliked. And he did like her, or at least tolerate her, more than John's previous girlfriends. So why did he not trust her?

~

Tuesday came surprisingly slowly. 

Though Sherlock was not entering the tournament, during the wait his nerves were on edge. He didn't let it show, of course; he had a reputation as 'heart-of-stone-sociopath' to protect. But he mentally ticked off the days, knowing that John was probably doing the same. 

And then suddenly Tuesday came and Sherlock was not prepared. John and Sherlock walked into the hall and sat down at a table. The Hall was quiet and hummed with a low contained excitement. Everyone's attention was focused on the Goblet of Fire and its bright blue flame, which flickered and waved despite the lack of a breeze. This obsessive attention was strengthened when Mcgonagall approached the Goblet. 

"Good evening, students." Mcgonagall bore the straight face she usually had, but to Sherlock's eye he knew that she was as excited as the rest of the students. "Tonight, three names will be picked from the Goblet of Fire. Those students will become their school's champions, and one will become the winner. 

"And now, for the moment we have all been waiting for." Mcgonagall approached the goblet slowly with her arm in front of her. She touched the goblet lightly, then the flames went scarlet and a piece of paper, white and unburnt, spurted out. Mcgonagall caught the paper, and read out loud:

"The Durmstrang champion is... Sebastian Moran!"

The Durmstrangs cheered as a tall, muscular boy with dirty blonde hair stood up from the within the crowd of Durmstrangs and made his way to the front. His thin lips were curled ever so slightly, but bore no sign of surprise. Sherlock had to admit, he was handsome. And he wasn't the only one to agree; Molly was whispering in her friend's ear and giggling as she stared at Moran. But he looked too cruel, too tough, too untrustworthy. After shaking Mcgonagall's hand, he disappeared into the side chambers at the front. As the applause died down, the flames turned red again and another piece of paper was coughed out. 

"The Beuxbatons' champion is," Mcgonagall said loudly, "Janine Hawkins!" 

Gasps and applause rippled out from the Beuxbatons to polite claps from the rest of the school. Janine stood up, smiling and sashaying confidently (was there anyone is Beuxbatons who didn't sashay?) up to the front. With one last grin aimed at Mary, she too left to the side chambers.

Now for the Hogwarts' champion. Sherlock's breath hitches in his lungs and his fingers drummed anxiously on the table. He glanced over at John, and he was fidgeting with his fingers and biting his bottom lip. Sherlock wanted to place his hand on John's, comfort him, the way Mary would in this situation. Unfortunately the unwritten rules of Acting Around Platonic Straight Friends dictated that this was not allowed. 

Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if these rules were broken, if the boundaries were surpassed, if they became... more. 

As if. 

"And the Hogwarts champion is," Sherlock came rushing back to earth as he leaned slightly forward in his seat. "John Watson!"

Sherlock grinned. He looked up at John, and saw with delight that John had the same shocked and happy facial expression as he walked up to the front. Mcgonagall seemed just as happy and, dare he say, relieved of the goblet's choice. He supposed that Mcgonagall was a Gryffindor and favoured her house (though she tried not to be obvious) and Merlin knows that John is one of the better ones: modest, funny, not arrogant, not annoying.   
Then John was gone from sight, and Mcgonagall dismissed everyone to their dorm rooms. So Sherlock, instead of going to his dorm, waited outside the chambers for John to leave.

After 10 minutes or so of waiting, John left, smiling in the same way he did when he was chosen. Sherlock wondered if John would ever leave cloud nine after today.

"Sherlock, hi." 

"What was that about?"

"General briefing. The first round is November 14th. We'll be given uniforms for it." John frowned slightly as they walked to the Gryffindor common room. "Tomorrow at 10 a journalist from the Daily Prophet is coming to interview us."

"Oh? Why?"

"I don't know. I doubt we'd have anything interesting to talk about."

"Definitely compared to last time Hogwarts hosted. Harry Potter was one of the Hogwarts' champions."

"Does that make me in the same league as Harry Potter?"

"No. Your league is far above his." Sherlock was 99% joking.

"What - defeating Lord Voldemort versus being able to name 88 bones?"

"You're working on it, though."

John laughed. 

"In all seriousness, you're the Hogwarts champion." They came to a halt outside the portrait of the Fat Lady. "That's a lot of responsibility."

"I'll think about that later. For now I'm just going to... Bask in the glory and euphoria of being picked."

Sherlock smiled and looked at his feet. Looking up again, he said, not really thinking, "I'm glad you were chosen. You deserve it, you know." 

He allowed his hand to rest on John's shoulder, before it dropped to his side, and he walked off in the direction of the Ravenclaw common room.


	7. Chapter 7

John hated having his photo taken.

He hated having his personal space invaded as strangers/family members he never knew existed grabbed him and moved him by a centimetre to the left; he hated being put at the front for being short (he was never normally one to be self conscious about his height, but when your junior-by-four-years-cousin is six foot three, you can't help but suppress a scowl); he hated having to shape his facial features into a smile which didn't make him look like a serial killer...

This pressure was not helped by the fact that this picture will be for the most read wizard newspaper in Britain. 

"Miss, you sit down on the chair here. You, stand there. You stand there. Very good. Don't slouch please, lad. Now, say 'cheese'!"

The wizard-camera flashed, thankfully not making John blink, and the photographer came out from behind the cover. A woman, most likely in her early-thirties, with tanned skin and wearing a bright pink suit stood behind him, seemingly assessing the three champions.

"Yes." She said. "Yes. I think that will do very well for the photo. I suppose the girl could have done with a little more concealer but it will have to do..."

John saw Janine glare at her out of the corner of his eye. He supposed that she could tell that the woman was talking about her, despite her not knowing the language. 

"Hello everyone," the woman went to shake hands with everyone, "I'm Kiara Singh. I'm a journalist for the Daily Prophet and I'm here to interview you all." 

"Why?" Moran snapped, "what is there to say?" 

Kiara smiled condescendingly. "Whatever I ask you, Mister... Moran. But if you're nervous, I could start with someone else. How about you, Miss Hawkins?"

"Janine doesn't speak English." John cut in. "Just to let you know." 

"Oh, don't worry, I have a translation potion with me. Come on, Miss, this way." Janine stood up from her chair and followed Kiara out of the room with no sign of nervousness. 

"A bit rude, is it not?" Moran said some time after she left the room.

"What is?"

"Not learning English. She could have had the decency to, being in England and all zat."

"Not everyone is good at languages." 

"I knew English since I was five."

"Congratulations, do you want a gold star?" 

"Now now, boys, let's not start the rivalry before the tournament even begins." Kiara walked back in with Janine. "Mister Watson, it's your turn." 

John followed Kiara into a small room with two seats and a table. They both sat down and the quill and notepad on the table sprang up, to John's surprised, poised and ready to write.

"Ignore those. They're just here to speed up the interview process."

John hummed in acknowledgement. 

"You know, I think I recognise you."

"You do?" John said, surprised.

"You're friends with that detective boy. The one who helped that Auror catch a dark Wizard last year."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. We're friends." John nodded. He felt as though he lost all ability of intellectual speech, now that he knew that that quill was writing down every word and every word will be printed for the wizarding world to see.

"My friend was the one who wrote an article about him. He's very clever. A little rude, she said, but very intelligent. And interesting. You must feel a little insecure - hanging around him, being in his shadow all the time - "

"Well, he is taller than me. He does cast a very big shadow." 

Kiara's lips twitched and she nodded at the quill. It started to write...

"Why are you writing 'uses humour as a defence to avoid the subject of his superior best friend'?"

"Oh, just ignore that. This is only a draft after all." Kiara smiled. "But, tell me, is your friend - Sherlock, is it? - part of the reason you entered the tournament?"

"Why would he be?" John shuffled in his chair.

"To stand out? To be noticed? Maybe to impress someone?"

"No, I - I did this just for me. Just so I can get my fix of adrenaline. And for the ten thousand galleon prize." John answered.

Kiara shrugged. "If you insists. Next question: are you concerned about the tournament? About how dangerous it is?"

"Merlin, no. Sherlock and I have faced much more dangerous things on cases. One time the giant squid in the lake grabbed him and dragged him into the lake - I had to swim after him." John chuckled at the memory. "And once, for a case, we had a duel with this girl who had stolen pictures of... I can't say who, but it was a dangerous case. One of our favourites." 

Kiara nodded slowly, then raised her eyebrows at the quill. The notebook shifted so that John couldn't see what was being written. "I see. How did you feel when you were chosen? When, out of all those people the Goblet could hand picked, it picked you?"

"It felt..." Surreal. Terrifying. Pressuring. Relieving. "Fantastic. I honestly couldn't believe it. I definitely don't regret putting my name in."

"Okay, final question. What would you do with the prize money if you won?"

John paused. "I would... Invest it. Change some into muggle money. Then it would go towards either training to become a healer or muggle medical school."

"Come on, John, my readers don't pay five knuts per paper to read about medical school. Use your imagination."

"Fine, I would buy the latest broom - the Firebolt 100. For quidditch. Happy?" 

With one last check at the notebook, she smiled at him. "Very. Well, I am very pleased to have met you, John Watson. Expect this interview in tomorrow's issue of the Daily Prophet."

John was never more relieved to leave a room.

~

"So, what did they ask you?" Sherlock asked later as they walked down the library, stopping every so often to grab books.

"Usual stuff, really. Why I entered, am I nervous, how I felt when I was chosen, what I would do with the prize money. She mentioned you, actually."

"Really?" Sherlock's eyebrows shot upwards, "Why?"

"She recognised me. She read that article from when we were in in fifth year, the Hilling's case."

"Oh, that one." Sherlock said, taking more books from the shelf (how he was able to carry all those books, John didn't know). "I'm surprised people made such a big deal out of it. Lestrade could have solved it."

John couldn't help the small tug at his lips. "Mmh. What are we doing here anyway?"

"Getting books."

"Yes, I know that. Why are we in the Zoology section? Your care of Magical Creatures homework?" 

"Nope, it's for you." 

"For me?"

They sat down at a table. "I've been doing research about the tournament," Sherlock explained, "and the statistics show that the first tournament is always a test on physical strength and skill. A duel, perhaps, or battling some kind of creature: a dragon, perhaps."

"A dragon?" John's eyes widened.

"But seeing as the age limit has been lowered to anyone in sixth year, instead under the age of seventeen, I will assume for the moment that it will be a less dangerous creature. A kappa, maybe."

"So, we're here to study." John said dryly.

"If you want to be crude about it, yes."

John groaned. "Sherlock I don't have time to study. I already have a potions essay, and a transfiguration exam, and - " 

"I can help you."

"Can't you just read everything and then tell me the answers?" 

"John, this isn't the OWLs, this is a dangerous tournament in which people have been known to die." Sherlock's voice was raised angrily. Upon noticing that everyone else in the library was glaring at them, he lowered his voice to above a whisper. "You can't cram for this one. Can you take this seriously?" A pause. "Please."

John looked up, stunned. He saw Sherlock look down at the table, biting his lip, and he softened. "Did the great Sherlock Holmes just say please?" He joked.

"John, not now."

"Alright. Fine. I'll take it seriously." 

"Good. Now - "

"To be fair, the last guy who died was a Hufflepuff." 

Sherlock attempted to glare at him, but then his lips quivered and he exploded into a fit of giggles. John's lips twitched. "I'm sorry, I'm really not getting the hang of this 'taking it seriously' thing."

"You're going to make a lot of enemies one day." Sherlock gave a small grin. "I'll plan your funeral. In the meantime, read Fantastic Beasts. The one at the top."

With one last smile at Sherlock, John picked up the book and started reading.


	8. Chapter 8

"It's here!" 

"What is?" Sherlock asked Greg as he sat down.

"My interview." John sulked into his cereal.

"Shall I read it to you, or - "

"No!" John reached across the table to grab the paper. "I'll read it first. I have my rights."

Sherlock watched John's face morph as he skim-read through the article - from fear to neutral to disgust to anger. "I did not say that!" He shouted eventually.

"What?"

"Just read it." John passed the paper and Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft gathered around it:

/John Watson, a small boy of 16 years, has been selected to be this year's Hogwarts champion. 

"I am very excited to have been chosen," John said, smiling, "I couldn't believe it when my name was called. It was fantastic."

John Watson, unbeknownst to most is actually the sidekick of the infamous boy-detective Sherlock Holmes who made the front cover of the Daily Prophet last year for recovering Kitty Hilling's ministry files, which contained data for a vast number of secret schemes and plans for which potential dark wizards would pay through the nose for. So press and attention is something John wasn't completely unused to.

"I'm very much addicted to adrenaline," John admitted. "Sherlock and I have been on many dangerous cases. I once had to swim in the lake to rescue him from the giant squid." John chuckled at fond memories of him and his companion. "So I wanted to enter for that adrenaline fix. And the money." It was clear that John was the physical embodiment of the ideal Gryffindor

When asked whether he entered for the publicity or attention of any particular person, he blushed. "No. This was purely for me. But I suppose it would help my... chances." Could it be that a certain fellow-student has caught the young Gryffindor's eye? 

John revealed later that one of his main passions in life was quidditch. "If I was to win the ten thousand galleon prize," he thought carefully, "I would buy the Firebolt 100. It's the fastest broom in the world and it should help increase Gryffindor's chances on the field." 

I'm sure everyone - ex-students, current students and competitors alike - wishes our representative in the tournament the best of luck. The first tournament will take place on the ninth of November./

"So how much of that did you actually say?" Greg asked. 

"None of it! Yeah, I mentioned quidditch and that I'm pretty much an adrenaline addict and that case with the lake, but it's all either made up or paraphrased. Did you see the bit about me being a sidekick?!"

"She's probably a student of Rita Skeeter's." Mycroft cut in coolly.

"Who?" Sherlock, John and Greg said at once. 

"Rita Skeeter. She is a novelist, but she used to be a journalist. Surely you have all heard of her."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia." Sherlock replied hotly. 

"She's well known for exaggerating details. Good for publicity, not so much for accuracy. I suppose this Kiara Singh took inspiration from her."

"Interesting." Sherlock said, in the least interested voice. "John, if you've finished, we should go to the library quickly and finish Fantastic Beasts."

"But I was going to meet - "

"Mary? Yes, I know. I've sorted it out. You can meet her at lunch near the benches. Now, come on."

They had barely left the hall when Sherlock realised with anxious regret how angry he had probably sounded at the mention of Mary's name. 

~

Sherlock was left alone at lunch, reading over Ozymander's Guide To Dragon Care for the twenty-somethieth time to try and distract himself from the never ending sad bitterness of being left alone by John and Mary. Obviously, he understood, somewhat, why. Mary wanted 'alone time' with John, John wanted to be with Mary. Even so...

"Did they kick you out too?" 

Sherlock reluctantly pulled his eyes up from the book to look up at Janine. "Yes. And yes, you can sit down."

"I didn't ask - "

"You were going to, so I decided to save you the time. Are you going to sit down?"

Janine sat opposite to him. She folded her arms on the desk and stared at him, her eyes narrowed in thought. Sherlock sighed, "if you're going to interrogate me, can you keep your voice down? We're in a library, and I'm trying to read."

"Clearly." Janine leant in to look at the spine of the book. "Charlotte Ozymander? I didn't take you to be a magical creature-person."

"Animals are so much more interesting than most humans - whether they're from the wizarding world or otherwise. Besides, the first round of the tournament will be in a month. You would want to be prepared too."

"You're not even in the tournament." Janine's mouth curled in amusement. "You must be very concerned about John to be doing his work for him."

"I'm not doing it for him. I'm his - tutor. And I'd rather tutor him on something I'm knowledgable on." 

"Okay, sure." They sat in silence for a while and Sherlock relished in it as he read, until - "So how long have you been in love with him?"

"What?!" 

"It's pretty obvious. I was just wondering."

"I - 'Love' is a bit extreme, isn't it?" Sherlock felt his hand shaking slightly as he closed his book on the desk. 

"No."

"No?"

"You're constantly staring at him, you get jealous whenever Mary so much as touches him, you're making him do study sessions so that he won't get hurt... That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Janine's smile was sympathetic. Sherlock loathed it.

"Does Mary know?" 

"Not that I know of. She knows that you and John are pretty attached, though. She can't quite trust the two of you yet. Understandable, though. If my boyfriend back home acted around his best friend the way John does with you - "

"Is John Mary's boyfriend?" Sherlock tried to conceal the waver in his voice as he spoke. "Are they... Going out?"

"They're as good as. Nothing... official yet. But give it time, though." 

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Look, the reason I'm asking about this is because... Well, it's mainly because I was curious. But, also because I want you to know that I'm your friend."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in half-amusement-half-disgust. "Isn't that supposed to be a mutual agreement?"

"You know what I mean. I've seen you. John is your only friend, and soon he'll be going out with her, Mary will be gone back to France once the tournament is over, and all his attention will be diverted. You'll want someone to talk to. Think of this as... An act of charity."

"Charity?" Sherlock spat. 

"No - that's not what I meant - "

"Well, I don't need your charity. I'm fine with the way things are. And so is John."

As Sherlock had just started walking away, Janine called out, "Mary is thinking of doing double study-sessions. Me, Mary, John, you." 

"Wonderful." 

~

"Are you nervous about the tournament?" 

"No." John answered. "I'm terrified." 

"Oh, not to worry. It's natural. Fear of the Unknown, and all that." Mary said. 

"But you should be pretty prepared." Sherlock pointed out. "So you'll be fine." 

"Janine and I do have pretty good tutors." John looked over at Janine. Mary translated into her ear, then Janine nodded.

"Speaking of which, who do you think will win out of the the two of you?" Mary asked. 

"Assuming that Moran doesn't." Sherlock added.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The first round isn't until next week, let the last."

Janine whispered in Mary's ear, and she laughed. "Janine just said that you're avoiding the question because you can't admit that she'll probably beat you."

"I don't doubt that. I've seen her practicing." Sherlock said. "Beuxbatons teach very advanced charms."

"And then there's Moran, who could probably knock me out in one second. What advantage do I have?"

"Your cleverness?" Mary suggested.

"Your knowledge on human anatomy."

"Your smallness."

"I'm not even that - "

"Your people skills."

"I'm not going to win, am I." John joked.

"Who knows, maybe there is a round which involves crawling through hobbit holes and identifying bones in the human body." Mary shrugged.

John shook his head. "Unlikely. But a man can dream."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the last short 'filler' chapter. This one is longer and has lots more plot in so.... Have fun I guess.

John woke up to find clothes lying on his bed, neatly folded into a red, yellow and black square. Of course. The uniform for the tournament. 

Today was the day of the first round.

He tried to quell the growing sick-feeling in his stomach (and the growing disturbing concern as he wondered how the clothes got onto his bed) as he tried the clothes on: red trousers, a dark red and black shirt with the Hogwarts badge on the chest and a red and black jacket with "Watson" printed in yellow on the back. He looked in the mirror; surprisingly, it fit (how they knew his size - whoever 'they' were - he didn't want to know). Even more surprisingly, he looked good. After he brushed his hair and nodded at his reflection, he went down the stairs to the Great Hall. As he traveled, he was vaguely aware of some of the pictures on the wall wishing him luck as he passed. He ignored them.

Heads turned to look at him as he entered the hall. Maybe it was the uniform which immediately showed him up as Not Usual. Maybe they knew that he carried the support and pressure for him to win from the whole school on his shoulder. Either way, he kept looking straight ahead until he reached where Greg was sitting. 

"How's the champion this morning?" Greg greeted him.

"Fantastic. What would happen if I was to just walk out that door and never return?" 

"So, you're nervous then. That's good. It'll motivate you." 

"I'm not 'nervous'. I'm on a level way beyond 'nervous.'" He poured himself some cereal, looked down at it, then grimaced and pushed it away.

"Come on, John, you've got to eat. Keep your strength up." Greg pushed the bowl towards him.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock said, standing behind him. John turned to face him and smiled weakly back at him. "I - uh - that's a nice uniform." Sherlock sat down quickly next to him.

"Yeah, it contrasts nicely with your green face." Greg joked.

"Thanks." John rolled his eyes. "Where were you? Why have you got your coat on?" He gestured to Sherlock's long, expensive looking coat and the blue scarf wrapped around his neck. Sherlock had worn this signature outfit as long as John could remember, even in first year.

"Looking around. The quidditch field has been temporarily converted into a stadium. I haven't seen much but I have heard some animals: three of them, different species. I identified them as a Kappa, some kind of dragon and an Occamy. My guess is that you will be asked to pick a creature out of a hat and then expected to fight it. I hope for your sake that it's the Kappa. It's the least dangerous and easiest to defeat."

"Right. Okay." John said faintly.

"No need to panic, though. You'll do fine... Why aren't you eating?"

"Don't want to." 

"You have to eat. You can't be passing out in the middle of fighting a whatever it is. Besides, you're always telling me off for not eating."

"What, you've never met a hypocrite before?" John said. Then he saw the bored look on Sherlock's face, and ate a spoonful of cereal. "Happy?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

~

At eleven o'clock, John was taken to a tent which sat nearby to the stadium. Inside, Janine was perched on a stool, biting her nails nervously, and Moran was pacing and looked ready to punch anything which came near him. Perhaps that was his way of showing nerves. John doubted he even had a 'flight' part of the Flight or Fight instinct. Unsure where to go or whether he should talk to anyone, he sat on the red sofa in the corner and stared blankly at the tent walls. Luckily Sherlock and Mary entered a moment later.

"I'm not sure if you're even allowed in here." John said to Sherlock, as Mary went to comfort Janine.

"Have you chosen your creatures yet?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John. He seemed almost as anxious as John.

"No. Probably not until you have to leave. Remind me what they are again?"

"Dragon, Kappa and Occamy." Mary cut in. "In terms of how to beat them: get the kappa to bow, so the water will pour out of its head; aim for the eye if you're fighting the dragon; and just throw whatever you've got at the Occamy." 

"So there's no strategy? Just 'cast some spells and hope for the best'?" John snapped. 

"Pretty much, yeah. They're very aggressive and protective when provoked."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then was interrupted by the voice on the speakers, telling all audience members to sit in the stands as the tournament would begin in 10 minutes. Sherlock sighed. 

"Good luck, John." Mary hugged John quickly, and kissed his cheek, before leaving the tent. Sherlock turned to leave too, before John caught him by the arm and turned him around. 

"Thank you, Sherlock." He said. "For helping me." 

Sherlock gave a small smile. "Good luck." Then he left, and John was left alone in the tent with the other contestants. He went back to his sitting.

Soon afterwards, Mcgonagall entered with Maxime and Karlssen. "Good morning students! Can you all please gather around me here." 

The contestants and their headteacher a stood in a circle around Mcgonagall. John noticed that in Mcgonagall's hand was a purple velvet bag, and that something inside the bag was moving. John hoped that inside was the actual creature he'd have to fight, rather than anything bigger.

"Miss Hawkins, would you please reach inside the bag and pick out one of the things inside it." Mcgonagall held the bag out in front of Janine, and she slowly reached her hand inside. As she brought her hand out, in the palm of her hand was a miniature, moving, fire-breathing dragon. She looked nervously between Madam Maxime and the pearl-coloured creature in her hand. "The Antipodean Opaleye." Mcgonagall said. "Mister Moran?"

Moran repeated Janine's actions, and brought out a scaley monkey-like creature with a hollow head, filled to the brim with water. "The Kappa." Mcgonagall said, holding the bag out to John. He inhaled and put his hand in, jumping slightly as he felt a creature land on his palm. He didn't even need to see what it was. He already knew that the winged, serpentine creature in his palm was -

"The Occamy." 

Of course, he got the creature he knew fuck-all about. 

"Each of your creatures is guarding a golden egg. You must find and retrieve this egg by any means necessary. If you had been preparing properly, you would somewhat know how to beat your creature." Nope. "But if you get into serious danger, or you don't retrieve the egg in time, you will be extracted from the stadium and taken care of, if necessary. However it will mean you will retrieve less points." 

John looked over to Janine, to make sure she understood, and she seemed relatively calm, if a bit bored, though she still looked pale and her hands were shaking. Clearly she had been told all this before.

"Miss Hawkins will be going first, then as soon as she has completed her task, Moran will go next, then Watson. Good luck, Champions. Miss Hawkins, if you would follow me now, we will make our way to the stadium." 

Janine left first. Within minutes, John could hear the cheers of the crowd and the roar of the dragon. He half-listened to the gasps and the growls and the applause, until the final applause came, and the announcer claimed that Janine had retrieved her egg in 12 minutes, and that the judges gave her 25 points. Then Moran was escorted out, fists clenched and stride quick. After 17 minutes, Moran received 23 points and it was John's turn to leave. He was asked if he was ready, and he nodded as he stood up on shaky legs. He kept his fists clenched as the low drone of the crowd grew louder, so much so that his nails dug into his skin. He approached the entrance, and he stepped out onto the stadium floor, which was covered in sand ('to soak up the blood' he thought drily to himself). The crowd shouted as he entered and made his way to the centre, making himself known. He tried to find a familiar face in the never-ending crowd, but the shouts were too overwhelming for him to concentrate. Eventually, the ululations died down and John recognised in horror the sound of the doors of a metal cage opening behind him. Slowly he turned around and saw the familiar serpentine creature that he read about in the books and pulled out from that bag. Except it was much, much bigger than expected. 

The Occamy flew with a jolt out from the cage and onto a rocky ledge behind John. John watched, completely still and silent as it sat down and its eyes shot straight through John. John swallowed, as he thought to himself what the hell he should do next. The Occamy was clearly sat on top of the egg he needed, so his best bet was to distract the bird from the nest and discreetly grab the egg. Now all that was needed was a distraction. 

"Confringo!" 

The spell hit its mark - right on the side of the Occamy's head. Unfortunately it did not produce the desired effect. The Occamy yelped - a high painful screech - in pain and glared at John. It flew from the nest and made its way towards John. He barely paid attention the the audience's screams as he attempted to run out of the way. But the Occamy was faster than he had ever imagined. Out of nowhere John felt sharp claws colliding with his temple and he fell to the ground. He saw, vision slightly blurred, the Occamy glare at him, only a few metres away from him. John winced, as he brought his hand back from where he was attacked. There was blood, but not too much. 

He stood up on unsteady feet and held his wand out in front of him. The Occamy was starting to fly back to his best, but John hit it with a stinging jinx. It fell to the ground, but got back onto its feet. John watched as it attempted to take off again, only one wing was injured, so as soon as it took off into the air, it fell down after a couple of seconds. It growled in anger. It kept trying, and failing, and growling, then trying again, but each time the Occamy stayed firmly on the ground. John couldn't tell whether this was an improvement or not.

He started to run to the nest, hoping that the Occamy's injury would slow it down, but somehow it overtook John and stood in front of the nest, its wings spread menacingly, despite the crooked angle the left wing was at. John cast another spell at it - a body binding jinx - but it moved out of the way swiftly. John knew that there was no way he could get past the Occamy as long as he was the only threat there. So he did the first thing he could think of that could work.

"Expecto Patronum!" He shouted. At first there was nothing, then a silvery white stream flew out of his wand and started to take shape into the form of his patronus: a   
wolf. He couldn't help the small proud smile at the audience's gasps. The Occamy immediately saw the new threat and turned away from John and made its way towards the patronus. John didn't wait. He ran towards the nest and grabbed the golden egg. The crowd roared. He looked over at the Occamy and breathed a sigh of relief as some people dragged it back into its cage. He smiled and held the egg up in victory, until the pain in his temple came back and he grimaced in pain, dropping the egg to his feet as his knees buckled. He was vaguely aware of someone behind him grabbing his shoulders and walking him to the first aid tent. The nurse there - Madam Pomfrey - replaced the person behind him then led him to a hospital-like bed. 

"Honestly, I don't understand why these things still exist." Madam Pomfrey tutted. "Every time, something like this happens." With a wave of her wand John's head stopped stinging and his vision cleared a little. 

"The score?" He asked.

"Never you mind. Hold still, I need to stitch up the wound." 

John lay there anxiously, waiting for the feeling of a needle being stabbed through his head, but surprisingly - or unsurprisingly, really - he felt nothing. 

"Done." Madam Pomfrey eventually said. "You may sit up if you want. Now excuse me, I have the other contestants to check over." Pomfrey walked out of John's peripheral vision - then he heard her sigh and start talking to someone outside of the door. But soon she gave in to whomever was outside. "You have a guest, Mr Watson." She called before walking outside. John sat up and smiled with relief when Sherlock entered. 

"When did you learn to do a patronus?" Sherlock asked flatly. 

"My head's fine, thanks for asking." John said sarcastically. 

"Sorry. But, in all seriousness, when did you learn to do a patronus?" John crossed his legs to make room for Sherlock as he came to sit next to him. 

"Mary taught me in the summer. Pretty impressive, right?"

"Yeah. Impressive." Sherlock echoed. "Mary's very clever."

"I know. If you don't watch out you're going to be replaced." John joked.

"Please, I'm one of a kind. You did well by the way. You took longer than Janine did but you got more points all together."

"How many?" John asked eagerly.

"27. It must have been that patronus." 

John grinned. "I think some of it was you. Thank you, again." 

"It's fine. Worth it." Sherlock smiled. His eyes diverted to the floor and John's breath got caught in his throat when Sherlock looked back. He didn't speak. He only felt himself subconsciously leaning towards Sherlock - 

"John!" Mary came running in and John barely had time to move back before she hugged him. "Oh, are you okay? That must have hurt, that injury." 

"It's alright. I'm good. Great, even. I'll never get used to magical medicine." John smiled. Mary exhaled in a way which sounded like a laugh, then he felt her lips crash into his. John suppressed his surprise and relaxed into the kiss. He wasn't sure why it felt so odd - they'd kissed before. A couple of times. Luckily Mary pulled away quite quickly and gave a small shy grin. 

"Well, um, that was - "

"Late." Mary said, before giggling. "I missed you, you know. I missed being your girlfriend."

"Well, I don't suppose you want to - go out again?" John scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

Mary wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a tight, possessive hug. "God, you're adorable." She murmured in his ear. John scoffed.

He wasn't all that surprised when he saw that it was now only Mary and him in the tent. Only slightly guilty.


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock left the tent he really did not want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to look at anyone. He just wanted to stay in his dorm room or the library or anywhere he could focus on something other than the aching void filling up his chest. 

He knew it would happen eventually: Mary and John. He was watching the entire time as Mary crawled her way back into John's life and pushed Sherlock out. Sherlock thought with a hint of irony about John's words earlier: "You're getting replaced." Now here he was, pushing through crowds aimlessly to get as far away from everyone as he could. Especially from them. 

He felt a hand grab his arm, so he turned around to snap at that person, to find Mycroft there. "Oh, it's you. Don't you have some over-seas tournament to organise or a boyfriend you could be seeing?" Sherlock didn't restrain the impatience in his voice.

"Why aren't you with John? Surely such a triumph should be celebrated with his... Pals." Sherlock wanted to punch that smirk right off his brother's face. 

"He's with Mary now." 'With', in every sense of the word. "I'm off to do violin practice. Leave me alone." 

Sherlock stormed off without another word. 

When he reached his dorm room, he was the only one there. He suspected every one else was off celebrating. 

He reached for the violin in his case - unfortunately not the Stradivarius he'd wanted since he was 10, as it was 'too expensive' and 'not easy to obtain', but still very good - and plucked at the strings systematically. Already in tune. Good.

He then got the bow from the case then started to play. At first he played the classics off the top of his head: Mozart, Handel, Beethoven. But the cogs were still whirring in his head and when he shut his eyes, trying to appreciate the flowing patterns of notes as they were fed into his ears, he still only saw Mary kissing John, John kissing back and his position in John's life becoming smaller and smaller. So he started improvising; he began with long, melancholy notes which ran smoothly into one another. The tune grew, and soon he added turns and trills which echoed throughout the dorm. He closed his eyes again. This time there was nothing except the piece slowly unfolding in his mind.

"Very nice, Sherlock." A voice said from the door, causing the bow to leave the strings with a sharp squeak half way through the note. "Is it a new piece?" 

"Mycroft, I thought I told you to leave me alone." Sherlock kept the violin and bow by his side. 

"So you did." Mycroft came to sit down on the trunk at the end of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock could have laughed and said something about Mycroft's inability to be active for more than thirty seconds. He wasn't in the mood for laughing. 

"What now? You give a speech about how 'caring is not an advantage' and 'it was only a matter of time'? Because that message has been engraved in my head quite plainly." Sherlock spat.

"If only. Unfortunately that would make me a hypocrite." Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile. "I sometimes miss the days I practiced what I preached."

"Yes, so do I. I could actually get some sleep whenever Lestrade came round." Sherlock waited for the blush to appear on Mycroft's face, but he remained as calm and stoic as ever. "Why are you here, if you're not going to lecture me?" 

"I've come with a warning." 

"How dramatic."

"I meant what I said, and I still stand by it; caring is not an advantage. Like most things, has advantages and disadvantages. But I think that in your case with John, the disadvantages outweigh the advantages."

"I'd rather not be having this conversation."

"Neither would I." 

"Then why are you here?"

"Do you remember Redbeard, Sherlock?" Sherlock froze. He studied Mycroft's calm face. He couldn't read anything other than the smug pride that he had finally hit a nerve. "You were very attached to him."

"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft."

"Of course not. Just involved." Mycroft stood up and looked down at Sherlock. The height difference wasn't nearly as big as Mycroft made it seem. "Don't get anymore involved, Brother Dear." Sherlock winced. "It will only end in tears." 

Sherlock glared at Mycroft's back as he left the room. When the door closed, he picked up his violin again and played the same mournful tune, calming his erratic heartbeat. 

~

Mycroft wasn't the only one who felt the need to comment on Sherlock's feelings. When he went down to breakfast the next morning, Janine was staring at him sadly. He looked for John, to find that he was at the other end of the hall, with Mary, Greg and Molly. Sherlock sat next to Janine.

"Welcome to the Rejected Third Wheel's Table." Janine cracked a small smile as she bit into a croissant.

"You didn't need to stare at me like I'm some lost puppy." Sherlock said crossly. 

"You practically are, though." Sherlock glared at Janine, and she quickly back-pedalled. "Well, maybe not. But still..."

"Will they be sitting together every day?" Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John and Mary. They were laughing with Molly over something Lestrade had said, and their arms were close together and hidden by the table, obviously holding hands. "Can't they separate for just one second?"

"I don't know. Probably." Sherlock turned back around again. "How are you?" 

"I'm fine. Perfect. Fantastic, actually." 

"No you're not."

"No I'm not. Of course I'm not." 

"I want to help you."

"Help?" Sherlock snorted. "I appreciate the thought but unless you have some kind of... machine that can extract all subjective emotions from my conscience, you're not going to be of much use."

"You know the Yule Ball coming up?" Janine asked.

"I'm not going." Sherlock said decidedly.

"Really? Because there's this boy from my school who came here and I think he will be perfect for you." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I don't know how much you think you know about me, but I'm not the type of person who goes on blind dates to dances." 

"Come on, it will be fun!" 

"For whom exactly?"

"Look at it this way," Janine said, "There are two best-case scenarios: one is that you and Victor take a liking to each other - "

"What?" Sherlock spluttered.

"Can I finish?" Sherlock pressed his lips together in frustration. Janine nodded. "Thank you. One scenario is that you and Victor take a liking to each other and continue to live happily ever after with John out of the picture, no more than a friend. The other option is that John gets jealous and realises his undying love for you - "

"Come on, be realistic."

"I'll move on to the worst case scenarios, shall I?" Janine huffed. 

"That would be nice, yes."

"Victor turns out to be a complete /connard/ and your feelings for John remains strong and unrequited." 

Sherlock paused. "I'll think about it." 

"Really?" Janine lit up. 

"No guarantees, though. I'm starting to think this whole thing you're doing is part of some social experiment." 

Janine shrugged and smirked, which Sherlock decided to ignore. "Where is he? This boy?" 

"All in good time, Sherlock. I've barely woken up, and I can't be bothered to find him with all these people around. But I'm sure you'll love him. He's gay. And you have a thing for the strong, natural leader types, right?" 

"We're not that close, Janine." 

"Whatever. I'll introduce you at lunch." 

Sherlock couldn't ignore the increasing feeling that this was a terrible idea.

~

Later that day, John and Sherlock had potions together, fortunately with no Beuxbatons in sight - Mary, Janine or otherwise. Sherlock was watching John as he cut into a styra berry, a slither of tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as each berry was cut exactly in half then added to the steaming pink potion next to them.

"Is this going to take any longer? I need that knife for the isken intestines."

"Hang on, last berry... There." John added the berry to the cauldron - turning the potion dark blue - and handed the knife to Sherlock, who started cutting. "Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry if me and Mary made you - uncomfortable."

"It's fine." Sherlock didn't look up from the intestines.

"Do you like Mary?"

"She's... nice. Not your worst choice of girlfriend by far."

"That's good. I'm glad." John licked his lips, clearly in deep thought about something. "Where were you at breakfast, anyway?"

"With Janine." 

A pause. "Oh. That's nice."

"We were talking about the Yule Ball."

"Right, that thing. You two going together then?" John's voice sounded forced, uncomfortable. 

"God no."

"Okay. Fine." The air was thick with silence. 

"Actually, Janine was - "

Then, the doors opened and some students - both Beuxbatons and Durmstrangs - came in - led by the Durmstrang head teacher. Professor Slughorn looked up from his desk and stood up to greet them. 

"I wasn't aware my class will be watched today." He said delicately. 

"Vell, vhat's ze point of an exchange if the students can not have a glimpse of how ozer schools run?" He gave a cat-like grin as he looked down at Slughorn. 

Slughorn scowled, then sighed. "Fine. But my students are currently being assessed. Your students can't offer any assistance." 

The students parted and spread themselves around the room. Sherlock saw Mary and Janine making their way towards them and suppressed a groan. Mary headed straight for John. 

"Hey. What are you making?" Mary nodded towards the cauldron

"Cauterising potion." John said.

"Is it supposed to be that colour?" Sherlock and John looked down at the potion, which had turned blood red. 

"Yes." 

"It's just, I made a cauterising potion in fifth year..." 

Sherlock felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to face Janine. "He's here. I can introduce you." Janine said, overly excited. 

"Who?"

"The guy I told you about today. Go and talk to him."

"I'm in the middle of an important potions assessment." 

"Five minutes can't hurt. He already knows about you. And John will take care of the potion, right? Go on!" 

Sherlock looked up around the room cautiously. "Where is he?"

"The guy at the far end of the classroom. You can't miss him." 

Inhaling, he stood up from his stool - telling John absentmindedly to keep an eye on the potion - and made his way over to the boy sitting on the other end of the room. The boy was leaning casually against the wall, talking to his friend in rapid Spanish. Sherlock stood awkwardly in front of him, his lungs compressing in his chest. He cleared his throat - partially to make sure his voice didn't waver or show any signs of nervousness, because he knew that if Janine's stupid idea had even the slightest chance of success, he'd need to cooperate - and the boy turned to look at him. Sherlock had to admit to himself, that Janine's choice was so far not a completely terrible one. He was handsome, with tanned skin and dark, wavy hair and a sharp jawline, and had a playful smirk constantly playing at his lips. Sherlock held his hand out, preparing for a handshake. "Sherlock Holmes." He introduced himself. 

The boy's lips curved into a genuine, calm smile and he took Sherlock's hand with his and shook it firmly. "Victor Trevor." He said smoothly, and Sherlock didn't bother concealing his blush when Victor brought his hand to his lips and kissed it. "Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."


	11. Chapter 11

John stood in front of the full-body mirror in his dorm room, pulling at the strangling, white collar around his neck, his face a pure representation of discomfort and embarrassment. John had no idea how his parents had managed to obtain these dressrobes, as he recalled his owl flying into the hall carrying the package from his mum, with a note telling him how his head of year had contacted them asking for dressrobes to be bought and sent ASAP to Hogwarts. The dressrobes certainly didn't seem cheap. Maybe his dad was finally at work again?

Still, he didn't understand why dressrobes were obligatory, when muggle tuxedos were so much more comfortable and didn't make him look like an out-of-place barrister, fresh from the court room, whose robes were too long for him. He thought with envy about how much more freedom the girls had with their outfits. He recalled those lunchtimes Mary spent talking to Janine, grinning excitedly as they squealed in rapid french and made flowing hand actions describing the shapes of their dresses. John managed to pick up words like 'bleu' and 'jusqu'à mes chevilles', whatever that meant. Meanwhile, as far as he could see from watching the boys sharing his dormroom opening similar packaging, all the boys had to wear the exact same styles and colours as each other, the only variety being whether that boy suited their outfit.

His mind diverted to Sherlock, how he wore a shirt and trousers pretty much everywhere, and how Sherlock would inevitably look better than everyone else in his dressrobes, how the outfit would frame and cling and flow away perfectly in the right places. Merlin.

He then thought of the boy Sherlock was now (dating?) hanging around with - Victor. The handsome one. The one who put his hand on top of Sherlock's everyday and kissed his cheek when they greeted each other and said goodbye. The one who made Sherlock blush and stammer around John if Victor was there. The one who made John's fist clench by attempting to kiss Sherlock on the lips (though Sherlock turned away) right in front of him, as John gritted his teeth to suppress his urge to punch the guy in his god-damn perfect face and spit 'back off, he's mine', even though he was still with Mary. Wait. Yes. He had Mary, and Sherlock had Victor. Victor, who wasn't offended or freaked out in the slightest by Sherlock's deductions and was even quite funny, as John had suppressed a smile - purely out of pride - at one of Victor's broken-English jokes. They were the ones made for each other. And Victor too would probably look good in dressrobes, the bastard.

He wasn't even ashamed to admit it: John Watson had feelings for Sherlock Holmes. The only things he was ashamed of was that it took Sherlock getting a boyfriend who wasn't him to realise it, and he happened to have a girlfriend at the time of his epiphany. He still liked Mary a lot, though. Didn't he? Maybe this thing for Sherlock was a passing phase. 

John shook his head, then reached for the bow tie lying on his bed as he attempted to tie it and forget everything invading his thoughts. Except his hands were still shaken in mind-forged rage. Damn his over-active imagination and jealousy. After many attempts, he looked in the mirror to find that the bow was not in fact tied at all. Not neatly anyway. It just flopped pathetically at his chest. John sighed.

John jumped slightly at the sound of someone knocking at the door, interrupting his train of thought. He called at them to come in, and he was (somewhat) relieved to find it was Sherlock, dressed in his dressrobes. As predicted, he looked good. Very good. His height seemed emphasised by the long, cloak-like over-coat or whatever wizards called the different parts of the dressrobes and his waiscoat and shirt clung distressingly to Sherlock's chest. John tore his eyes away and looked Sherlock in the eye, giving him a small, friendly smile, to find that Sherlock's usually unruly curls were combed and smoothed down into smooth, tight waves, which John could probably run his fingers through. If he wanted to, that is.

He realised that no one had spoken in several seconds after Sherlock had entered the room, so he gave a small smile, "Hey. How do you know Gryffindor's password?"

"Gryffindor have never been particularly clever with their passwords, I got it in a matter of seconds. But that's not important. You know you have five minutes until you and Mary have to go down to the hall with the other Champions, right?" Sherlock said.

"I know, I know, I just can't do this bloody tie."

"Did no one teach you when you were younger?"

"You've been in my house, Sherlock. The only life lessons I ever really got were a large variety of swear words, mainly from Harry."

"That would explain your extensive vocabulary in first year. Shall I help?" 

"Uh - yeah sure." 

Sherlock took the tie hanging around John's neck and started to tie it, while saying instructions as he did it. John probably should have taken notice - for future reference - but currently, his mind could only focus on how close they were standing and the baritone tones of Sherlock's voice. Then when Sherlock's finger's skimmed the base of John's neck, very lightly, he flinched. 

"Sorry." Sherlock muttered.

"'S'fine. Cold hands, that's all."

Sherlock finished, straightened the tie one last time then stood back. "Done. You look good, John."

"I hate dressrobes." John blurted out. "I'd rather where something more comfortable." 

"Like that ugly jumper of yours?"

"Yeah. Which one?"

Sherlock snorted. "Come on. You'll be late."

At the bottom of the staircase, near the Great Hall, Mary and Victor stood chatting together. John came down to greet Mary first.

"What took you so long?" Mary asked, though a friendly smile remained on her face.

"Lost track of time, sorry. You look great, by the way. Nice dress." John nodded to the long, purple dress Mary was wearing.

"You too. Well, dressrobes, not dress. Come on, every one else is in their place." John attempted to look back at Sherlock, but soon he was being dragged to the entrance of the Great Hall, and Sherlock and Victor was out of his peripheral vision.

The Champions and their partners were lined up one behind the other at the entrance to The Great Hall. Janine was with another Beuxbatons boy, with linked arms and flirting in hushed French (though John was pretty sure Janine had a boyfriend back in France). Moran was with a tall, blonde girl from Durmstrang, and they weren't talking at all. If it weren't for the fact that Moran's hand was almost clinically held on the small of her back, he doubted that they knew each other at all. John could just about hear the sounds of flutes and stringed instruments tuning up behind the door, and the buzzing of hundreds of excited voices inside. His heart sped up rapidly.

Soon, the doors were opened and the Champions walked through an aisle which separated the applauding crowd. He tried to find any distinguishable trace of Sherlock - the top of his curls, the offended gasps of someone he'd deduced, even a sign of Victor was welcome - but in vain. He tried not to look visibly disappointed as he, Mary and the other champions took their place in the centre of the hall - the dance floor - and got into position.

"This is going to go horribly wrong." John whispered at he placed one hand on Mary's waist and the other in her spare hand.

"I know." Mary whispered back quickly, before the music started and the dance begun. It was a waltz, played by a live orchestra made up of students and some teachers. John knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock could easily play this tune. "Elementary" he would call this piece. In fact, the only reason Sherlock wasn't currently playing was simply because Sherlock did not work with others. Apart from John. So Sherlock would not play in an orchestra, unless it was an orchestra entirely made up of Johns - clones of himself playing every instrument. What a laughable idea.

'Focus, Watson," He told himself firmly as he lifted Mary up in the air in time with everyone else and saw Mary giggle in delight. They had practised this choreographed routine before, once or twice, after the one dance lesson a teacher gave the students. It never really went to plan - Mary would either step on his toes or John would forget a move. "It's tradition." Mary had pointed out every time John asked what the point of it all was. Tradition or not, it was a stupid idea. The chances of someone getting injured from this dance alone was probably ten times more likely than in an actual task. Given the choice, he'd take the Occamy over the Yule Ball any day.

Soon, to John's relief, other people started to join in with the dance and the attention on him and the other champions left. Something to the left of him caught caught John's eye, and when he turned to glance at it, he saw Sherlock dancing with Victor Trevor. Except he seemed so much more graceful, more elegant, more professional that anyone here. He swayed in time with the music and stepped perfectly without crashing into anyone. Victor was pretty good too. Very good, actually. John couldn't tell who out of him and Victor was leading; they were both equal to each other and the dictating music. Even when the song changed into a faster waltz, they stayed perfectly in time. His chest heaved with jealousy at just how well the two of them fitted together, and with anger at the predatory way that Victor gazed at Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock, meanwhile, wasn't paying attention: his eyes were as glazed over as when he played the violin, or explained in rapid flow his many deductions, or when he entered his mind palace. John looked away quickly, before Sherlock started noticing the real world again.

"That's quite brave of them." Mary said, who, apparently, had been watching Victor and Sherlock too. 

"What do you mean?"

"Them dancing together. They're probably the only gay couple here."

"I suppose so. Actually, I think I saw two Durmstrang girls dancing together. Um, do you want to get a drink?"

"Sure. Hey, well done for not breaking your leg while dancing. Or mine."

"Don't jinx it." John quipped, walking off the dance floor with Mary's hand in his, hoping that the heated anger in his stomach stayed there. He could use a drink. He silently cursed Hogwarts' restrictions on alcohol in school.  
-  
John and Mary stayed at the ball for two hours or so, dancing to some Wizard band whose name John had forgotten, but everyone else screamed excitedly whenever a new song came on. They took breaks from the dancing only for drinks of Pumpkin juice and Butterbeer, and they sat talking abut nothing in particular for five minutes or so, before Mary would take his hand and drag him back to the dance floor. Neither of them were particularly good dancers, so they basically jumped up and down on the spot for fifteen minutes or so, before they got tired again. 

During their fourth or so break, John realised that he hadn't spoken to Sherlock all evening. He hadn't even seen him since the beginning dances. He looked around the room and there was no sign of him: not dancing in the centre of the room, not sitting at a table, not (thank Merlin) one of the couples kissing - less discreetly than they probably thought - against the wall or in a corner.

"Do you know where Sherlock is?" John asked Mary.

"No. Probably with Victor. Why?" 

"Just wondering. I'd like to talk to him a bit."

"Actually, now you've mentioned it, I'm going to find Janine." Mary stood up, brushing her dress down, then looked around the room. "Isn't that Victor Trevor over there?"

John looked where Mary was facing and sighed. Of course Victor was with the PDA couples. "I think I'll join you and Janine, then."

"Why? Sherlock isn't the one snogging him. You can still go and find him" 

John turned again to where Victor was, and exhaled, both out of relief and incredulity - Victor had replaced Sherlock, somehow within the course of a couple of hours, with some other boy. He gritted his teeth. "I'll be right back." He pushed his way through a crowd of Durmstrangs to where Victor was. He tapped him on the shoulder and Victor turned around away from the new boy, concealing a scowl with a forced smile. "John, yes?" Victor said, "I'm afraid that if you want this corner for you and your girlfriend, you'll have to wa - "

"Where's Sherlock?" John growled.

"Calm down, he's outside somewhere."

"Well, why isn't he with you?" 

Victor shrugged and John let out a huff of frustration. "I'm going to go and find him." He stormed off before the more primal side of him convinced him to punch Victor, as he deserved. 

The cold December air hit his face hard as he left the crowded, heated castle. With one hand puling his cloak further around him for warmth, he took his wand out and cast a lumos charm, allowing him to see that little bit better. "Sherlock?" He called. No one replied. He walked slowly, skirting the castle walls, calling Sherlock's name. Finally, he heard a deep slurred voice reply back, "John?" John breathed a sigh of relief, approached where he heard the voice, and saw Sherlock slumped against the wall, his head leant back and swaying ever so slightly. "I knew you'd turn up eventuallly?" Sherlock slurred, a slow careless smile crawling drunkenly onto his face


	12. Chapter 12

Mary was sat down at a table, watching Janine and her date dancing. She smiled at Janine when she turned around, then glanced at the door for the tenth time, hoping that John may get back before this song finished. But there was no sign of him, so she sighed and turned back to Janine. When that got boring, she looked around at what used to be a brown, monotone, stone hall and was now decorated in a winter-wonderland-esque theme. The walls and tables were white and the stone floor was now silver and reflective, like a frozen over lake. Snow fell from the ceiling, frosting the tables and the giant Christmas tree at the back. It was nice. Mary doubted that even Beuxbatons could do a better job. The song ended, and Janine and her date parted. He kissed the top of her hand before Janine rushed back to the table, beaming. "You two seem to be getting on well." Mary grinned.

"He's great. So much more - gentlemanly than Louis."

"Oh? So you'll break up with Louis when we get back home?"

"Probably, yeah. He won't mind though... Where's John?" 

"Went to find Sherlock. Victor went and replaced him with some Hogwarts guy. Saw them in the corner together." 

"Merlin, really?" Janine said. She sighed. "I probably shouldn't have set them up. Victor isn't exactly the most... loyal person." 

"It's not your fault. Victor's the twat here."

"Yeah." Janine sat in thought for a second. "Are you worried about John?"

"Why would I be worried?"

"He's basically left you to go look for Sherlock. I mean, maybe that's just me over-thinking things, but - " Before Janine could finish her sentence, her eyes widened and she shrieked, lifting her feet off the floor. "Mary, there's a spider," she said quietly. "Get rid of it." 

Mary laughed, and looked down at the floor where Janine was staring, wide-eyed, and sure enough a black, reasonable big (though Mary had dealt with bigger - and deadlier - in the past) spider was sitting on the silver floor by Janine's feet, dead still. Mary sighed and bent down to scoop the spider into her hand. "You sure you don't want to hold it? It's very friendly." Mary offered the spider in her hand to Janine, to which Janine responded by leaning backwards.

"No, Mary. Just take it outside, step on it, I don't care. Get rid of it."

Mary chuckled. "I'll see you later." 

She cupped her hand over the spider, until she walked outside and let the spider go from her hand. But to Mary's surprise, after the spider crawled from her hand, it did not scuttle away to safety. Instead, it stayed completely still and seemed to stare at Mary. Mary watched back, out of curiosity. Then the spider began to transform. It grew in height and the blackness of its outer along grew pale until it reached a pale skin colour, the only original black colour remaining on the spider's (if that was the appropriate term) head. Four of the limbs retracted, and it continued to grow until it became a young man in an expensive-looking black suit, who was at least five inches taller than Mary. The only trace of spider left was in the jelled, jet black hair and the dark emptiness of the man's eyes. Mary's eyes widened, and opened her mouth to shout for help, but the man placed a cold hand over her mouth. "Follow me. Don't shout, don't scream." The man hissed, in an accent which Mary identified to be Irish. Then his arm was round her shoulder and he was pacing quickly to a dark corner where the light from the castle stopped. Mary plucked up her courage and asked, her voice shaking, "what are you going to do to me?" 

The man chuckled. "Do? Nothing. Believe it or not, Miss Adams, you are of some use to me. I wish to speak to you." 

Something got caught in Mary's throat. She swallowed it down before replying, sounding braver than she felt, "You must be mistaking me for someone else. I'm not Miss Adams. I'm - "

"Mary Morstan? Not by birth, you're not." They stopped walking and the man stood in front of her. Mary subconsciously stepped back into the wall behind her. "So, Alissia - if I can call you that - I can assume you're quite curious as to why I know this about you."

"That's one way of putting it. What else do you know about me?" Mary's stomach started twisting. 

"I know that you lived in Norfolk until the age of 8. I know your parents were infamous death eaters and were responsible for events that occurred during The Dark Lord's take over in the 90's." Mary swallowed down her rising anger and clenched her fist. The man kept going. "You were part of it too. At a young age you were taught to use vanishing cabinets to deliver messages; you could produce a full-body patronus charm by the age of six, along with other spells that your classmates probably wouldn't be able to do if they tried. But after they died in the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort was killed, you were moved to live with your muggle-sympathising aunt in France. She was ashamed of you and your family's history, so she changed your name. Your identity. No one knows who you are. Except me. The best part? You miss it." The man's smirk grew, baring a few polished, sharp teeth. Mary shuddered. "You miss being cleverer than everyone. You miss the excitement of working against the law."

"Is this blackmail?" Mary's voice was shaking.

"God, no. This is a read through of your CV. I'd like to recruit you."

"Recruit me?"

"I have this little plan of mine. Not like Voldemort or anything - he was quite amateurish with his schemes, in my opinion. Couldn't even kill a one year old. But I digress. In order for me to complete my overall plan, I need supporters. Employees, if you will. And a girl of your skill set and background would be very valuable to me. And with a little bit of training - " 

"Not interested." Mary said firmly. "I'm sorry, sir, but no matter what you insist, I do not miss that life."

The man feigned a disappointed look. "Shame. It really is a shame. Well, if your mind is made up, I guess I should probably leave."

"I think that is for the best." Mary said.

"But before I go, may I ask you your opinion on Sherlock Holmes?"

Mary blinked. "How do you know Sherlock?" 

"I'm interested in him too." The man said in a low, hushed, almost threatening voice. "But he will take extra... persuasion. And I can't help but notice that you're not quite so keen on Sherlock as John Watson is on him. Excuse the double entendre there." 

"John is my boyfriend. Sherlock is his friend. What more is there to say?"

"Dump him. He's no more loyal to you than Janine Hawkins is to her boyfriend."

"John isn't cheating." Mary said incredulously. Her fists clenched tighter into her palms and she could feel the sharp cut of her nails digging into her skin.

"Not physically. Not yet. It's only a matter of time." The man's sing-song voice fuelled her anger further. "And I know what kind of girl you are. Fuelled with life-long anger and sense of vengeance. When the inevitable happens, you will want help with that, and trust me my plan will serve you enough justice to last a lifetime. You know what, I'm running out of time." He drew something out of his jacket's breast pocket. "Take my card. It will have the details you'll need if you change your mind." He offered her the card and she took it cautiously, keeping it in her hand. "I hope to see you very soon, Alissia."

I'm You'll be spying on me?"

"Always have been." The man shrugged. As he walked away, he shrinked until the last trace of him was the sound of scuttling spider's legs against the pavement. Mary took a shuddered breath and looked at the card. There was just enough light to trace the cursive letters on the card: 

"Jim Moriarty. Budding Criminal Mastermind. Open for business Forbidden Forest, 11pm - 2pm." 

~

"Are you drunk?" John asked.

"Yes, a bit. Why, is it noticeable?"

"What happened, Sherlock?" John asked softly.

"We went on a walk outside - Victor and I - and he had a flask of something. Bibero Figuera he called it. He had some, then offered me it, so I took it." Sherlock grimaced. "It tasted bad but I kept drinking it. 'Cause I wanted to. Then he tried to kiss me, I think. But I didn't want to. So I deduced some stuff about him and he was offended by it, I think. He punched me here," he pointed to his cheek, and John kicked himself for only just noticing that it was cut and bleeding slightly, "and stormed off." Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes wide and pitiful, like a child who had been caught doing something wrong, "are you angry at me?" Something in John's chest melted.

"Angry? Christ, Sherlock, of course not. That would be cruel."

"You're usually angry when I offend people." Sherlock pointed out.

"Only when you're sober." John smiled softly. "Currently, I'm only pissed off at Victor."

"Why?" Sherlock tilted his head. "I drunk the alcohol, I offended him with my deductions. Victor didn't do anything."

"Except get you drunk, punch you, and abandon you for some Hufflepuff twat." John could feel his anger simmering up again, so he took a deep breath. "Can you stand up?"

"Probably."

"We should get you to the infirmary, see if the nurse can treat your cut and help you with your being drunk."

"What? No. I'm fine." Sherlock waved it off with a flick of his hand.

"No you're not. Besides, she won't ask questions."

"I don't care. I just don't see the point. You're a doctor." Sherlock said firmly.

"No I'm not."

"You will be."

"Not necessarily."

"You have your first aid kit?"

"Yes."

"Then just take me to my dorm and get your kit from your trunk. I'll sleep it off."

"You sure?" Sherlock nodded in reply. John sighed. "Fine. Come on." John pulled Sherlock up by the arms, then put his arm around his shoulders. "Just keep walking, put one foot in front of the other."

"I know how to walk, John." Sherlock said stubbornly, swaying into him as they walked. 

"Which way is the Ravenclaw common room, again?" 

"It's the west tower, so keep heading that way to the West Entrance." Sherlock pointed limply to the general area in front of them. "Then go up the stairs. You'll recognise the way from there." 

They walked for what seemed like miles, John half-leading, half-carrying Sherlock as he mumbled on about nothing in particular, switching from Victor's issues with his father to the history of fire whiskey in the UK. John listened without complaint. Then they approached the stairwell. 

John grunted as he heaved Sherlock up the stairs and Sherlock made no effort to help himself. John attempted to get Sherlock to concentrate a little more on walking, but Sherlock continued his rambling, the subject having changed from alcohol to the importance of bees. Thankfully, they eventually reached the common room's door, with the eagle carved into the knocker.

"What always comes, but never arrives?" the eagle said, in a voice barely above a whisper, to which Sherlock snorted and John sighed. He knew that Ravenclaw's password had always been a riddle, which only Ravenclaws could apparently solve, but with one of them drunk and the other a slow Gryffindor... 

"Look, my friend's drunk an and he needs to get in. I don't know the answer and Sherlock won't be able to. Can you just let us in?"

The eagle's eye shined brighter and seemed to glare right through John, analytical, judgemental. Like Sherlock, he thought to himself. Despite the feeling of discomfort and self-consciousnesses in his throat, John clenched his fist and kept eye contact with the door knocker. Eventually the door opened, and John breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks." He said

"The answer to the riddle is 'tomorrow', in case you were wondering," The knocker said as they passed. 

"Yeah, cheers." 

The two of them entered the ravenclaw common room: circular and large with a dark ceiling made to look like the clear, starry sky on a Summer's evening, and midnight-blue carpets on the floor. They then walked up the small staircase on the left to the boys' dormitory. Sherlock almost immediately rushed to his bed - the one with his violin case lying on top of it - and collapsed face down on it. John couldn't help but smile slightly. "If I had known that all it takes for you to want to sleep is a bit of alcohol, I would have given you some ages ago."

Sherlock turned over to lie on his back, his neck turned to face John. "I thought you were going to get your first aid kit." He muttered sleepily. 

John looked at Sherlock's cheek - the cut had stopped bleeding, leaving small traces of dried blood around it, but it still needed cleaning. "Hold on. I'll be back. Try to stay awake."

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent, though it sounded a lot like 'fine'.

John ran out of the ravenclaw common room and down the spiral staircase, his cloak flying behind him. He sped through several corridors, slowing down only to catch his breath. Eventually he reached the stairs that led directly to Gryffindor's common room, with Greg walking up them alone. John called his name as he caught up to him, and he turned around to greet him.

"Hi, John. Where's Mary?" Greg asked.

"At the hall, still. Probably. Need to get my first aid kit."

"Why?"

"Sherlock. Victor punched him, cut his cheek. Need some antibacterial." Though John prided himself on his stamina, built up from those cases running around chasing Sherlock and playing constant football at home, he was still breathing heavily and trying to calm his pulse as he conversed with Greg. 

"Ok. Where is he?"

"Ravenclaw dorm." 

"You just ran all the way from Ravenclaw to Gryffindor's common room?"

"Yeah." 

They continued speed-walking up the stairs, for most of the way in silence, except for Greg telling John that Mycroft had left Hogwarts for home earlier that week for 'some interview at the ministry. His mum works there, so she got him a potential job offer. Nothing major, obviously.'

John then walked swiftly into his dorm room, grabbed the emergency first aid kit stored in his trunk (for cases) and said a quick 'see you later' to Greg, before hurrying back down stairs, through corridors and up the spiral staircase to Ravenclaw. Again, the door knocker asked a riddle, and John had to explain that no, he was not a Ravenclaw and yes, he was here for Sherlock. Finally he was allowed through to Sherlock's dorm. Sherlock was lying on his back still, the tips of his fingers on his lips as though in prayer, when he came in. Except this time he had taken his dress robes off and was changed into his (silk?) pyjamas.

"You took your time." Sherlock muttered.

"It's not like Gryffindor common room is right next door, is it?" John snapped, before cringing regretfully. "Sorry. Sit up?" 

Sherlock complied and crossed his legs as he sat up. John sat down in front of him and took out the antibacterial wipes from his kit. "This may sting a little." He said, as he applied the wipes to Sherlock's cut. The boy barely winced. Maybe it was a high tolerance to pain. Maybe the alcohol had numbed his nerves.

In this lighting - a dark room illuminated only by a few candles - Sherlock's eyes were dark and dilated, the blue-green irises merely a thin ring around his pupils. John had to breathe deeply to prevent himself from audibly sighing at how the light contoured Sherlock's cheekbones and Cupid-bow lips, shined on his black hair. And the fact remained that John was leaning so incredibly close to Sherlock's face. So close.

"I don't know why I went out with him." Sherlock murmured, barely above a whisper, slurring his words. But John was close enough to understand.

"Don't think too much about it." John said firmly.

"He was nice. At first. And charming. But I didn't like him. I don't think so."

"It doesn't matter." John pulled away from Sherlock, then threw the wipe away into a nearby rubbish bin. 

"I think I wanted to prove a point."

"What point?" John knew it was wrong, to keep pressing for information that Sherlock would not willingly give sober. He kept listening anyway. 

"That I'm not...lonely. That I haven't divorced myself completely from feelings." 

John swallowed, then nodded. "Okay. Fine. Whatever you feel. It's all fine." He got up to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist, staring intently into John's eyes. John sat back down immediately.

"You used to think I wasn't interested in anyone. That I wouldn't want to be with anyone. Kiss them. But I do." John's pulse quickened rapidly. Before he knew it, Sherlock's face was leaning towards his and in a blind hurry of panic, John stood up and pulled his wrist away from Sherlock's hand. 

"Get some sleep." He said, his voice firm. Overcompensating for the way his heart shook in his chest. "You're drunk, remember. Don't stay up, playing the violin or whatever. I'm going to - "

"Find Mary?" Sherlock said quietly.

"Mary. Yeah. Probably. Yeah. G'Night." 

John left the room quickly, and barely left the common room before he slumped against the wall next to Ravenclaw's door, burying his head into his hand. 

Sherlock is drunk, he reminded himself. Sherlock does not feel things that way. Not for him. 

They were so close, though. But still only just, frustratingly out of reach. 

He didn't bother finding Mary. Perhaps out of guilt. Instead, he headed straight to his dorm, took off his robes and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sad wanking towards the end

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he immediately became aware of the blinding pain in his forehead weighing him down on the bed. He groaned, clutching his head. The next thing he was aware of was John's medical kit lying on the floor by his bed, as though it had been lying on top of Sherlock's bedcovers and was then kicked off in the middle of the night. But why was it there - oh. 

The events of the night before came crashing through and Sherlock groaned again, this time out of embarrassment and frustration. He remembered Victor and his cat-like grin as they danced at the ball. He remembered Victor walking them calmly out of the hall, his hand on the small of his back. He also remembered the flask Victor pulled from his robes and the way that though it tasted utterly revolting, Sherlock kept drinking from it until the flask felt light in his hands and his brain slowed down, to the point it almost switched off. Then he found himself pressed up against the wall by Victor, and he panicked, releasing a long flow of last minute deductions that Victor may have found a bit not good. Sherlock touched the cut on his cheek - cleaned, which explains John's medical kit. Ah. John. 

Sherlock had tried to kiss him. Sherlock had made a speech about how he has feelings. Sherlock had completely given himself away. 

Sherlock would have stayed in bed all day, and preferably all his life too - at least until he could completely delete the event from his head - if it weren't for the train leaving Hogwarts today. He looked at his watch: nine o'clock. Five hours until the train leaves. That's five hours of trying to avoid John and Victor. 

Looking around the room, he saw that everyone else's bed was empty, unmade. So everyone was having breakfast. Breakfast. His stomach twisted at the thought. He attempted to sit up, ignoring the sickening swaying of the room, then massaging the point of his forehead where the migraine was considerably worse, he stood up slowly, bedposts for support. 

He felt his feet kick at something below him, and saw John's first aid kit. He sighed. This avoiding-John business would be very difficult for if he was to have to give the kit back. That would involve eye contact. And talking. 

Then he felt his stomach lurch again, and he barely made it to the bin before he vomited up the alcohol and the one sandwich he ate the day before. After he stopped gagging, he leant back and wiped the perspiration off his face. He felt no better. Actually, it was fair to say he felt like complete shit. 

"You alright there, Sherlock?" He heard someone say, and he turned around to see Molly.

"Superb. Fantastic." He replied drily, sitting on the floor. "Unless you count the fact that I am currently incredibly hungover, suffering from migraines and nausea, I got punched in the face by my date last night and I don't think I can ever show my face in public again. But other than that I'm good." 

Molly laughed softly. "Such a drama queen. But John told me about the drinking. I came up here to see how you were. You'll need some water, for the hangover. And some food." 

"I'm really not hungry." Sherlock said.

"Can you get changed? Come down to the hall with me. There aren't any lessons on today so you can spend the next few hours sleeping if you want, after some food." 

Sherlock nodded and stood up on shaking legs. "Did John say anything else?" He asked as he got a shirt and trousers from his trunk. 

"That Victor basically got you drunk then punched you. Never liked the guy, anyway, if it's of any comfort." 

"Anything about... anything I said?"

"No. Why?"

Sherlock debated whether to tell Molly this or not. Of course, she already knew about him. His feelings. Apparently everyone did now. But when Janine got involved... what did he get out of being out in the open other than a drunk date and a cut on his cheek?

Molly is not Janine, he reminded himself. 

"I may have told John I had feelings for him and tried to kiss him." Sherlock finally said.

"May have?" 

"It's hard to tell. My inhibitions were lowered. My memory of it is a little fuzzy. But I'm pretty sure I did." Sherlock felt his eyes burn slightly. Damn the alcohol still in his system.

"Oh, Sherlock." Molly's face softened. "How did he react?"

"He just...left. He seemed confused. A bit angry. Shocked, mainly. I don't know." Sherlock sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands. He felt the bed creak as Molly sat beside him. 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what to say." 

"Neither do I."

"Shall I just get some food for you?" 

"Yes. And give John his first-aid kit back." He pointed to the floor where it sat. 

"Ok." He felt Molly stand up and heard the creaking floorboards near the door as walked away. 

"Molly?" He looked up at her.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." The words tasted foreign in his mouth. Or maybe that was just the sour aftertaste of vomited alcohol. He ignored it and continued, "you didn't have to help me. We don't even talk that often. But you did. So thank you."

Molly smiled and left.

~

Sherlock felt better later that day. He stayed in bed for hours, sipping on water and taking bites out of food Molly smuggled out of the hall, getting up only to pack his trunk and wander aimlessly around the dorm. Soon, the migraine was replaced with boredom and he resorted to making random objects around the room levitate and dance above his head as he stayed lying down. He almost considered leaving the room. 

Thankfully, 1 o'clock came and Sherlock could gather up his stuff and go down to the carriages. It was crowded, with extra Durmstrangs and Beuxbatons saying goodbye to friends for Christmas. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John and Mary kissing. Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging the familiar ache in his chest. They broke apart, spoke, then hugged. But John was facing Sherlock's direction, and they ended up making eye contact with each other. Sherlock looked away immediately. 

He assumed that they were saying goodbye for the holidays, but then Mary got on a carriage with John. Were exchange students even allowed to go to Hogwarts students houses? He stared as the carriage rolled away.

He got on a different carriage soon afterwards with some fifth years, and read as the self-driven carriage rattled along and the fifth years prattled on non-stop. On the train, he got into the first empty carriage and carried on reading. He hadn't felt this lonely since first year. 

His mother and father welcomed him at Kings' Cross, hugging him before they drove back home. They asked him about the tournament, about school, about Mycroft (he had chosen to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas), to which Sherlock responded in complaints or minimal answers made up of very few words. They then asked about John. He didn't respond. They left it alone. 

Sherlock never missed home whenever he was at Hogwarts. He never thought about the delicious smells constantly coming from the kitchen, the sofa which he loved to sink into for reading or watching the telly, his bedroom with the periodic table poster and the test tubes and Bunsen burner on his desk ready for an experiment. So normally, when he came home it was Hogwarts that he missed, and the holidays seemed too long a wait. Now, the holiday could not be long enough. 

After a dinner that he was forced into eating, he went up to his room under the pretence that he wanted to unpack. Instead, he got his phone from his bag and checked it for messages. Nothing. John always texted him when he got home. Clearly he was avoiding him.

That night he dreamt of Yule Balls and music, and a room of Marys and Johns dancing together completely oblivious to him standing in the middle of the room alone and in pain.

The next day, Sherlock woke to his phone on his bed stand vibrating. He reached for it immediately, and his heart jump when he saw John's name appear on the screen. He couldn't tell if it was a positive feeling. He pressed on the button and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?" His voice was croaky and sleepy from just waking up. 

"Sherlock, hi. It's me." John's voice said softly, barely above a whisper. 

"Yes, I know. Your name appears on the screen when you call, you know."

"Right, sorry. Did I wake you?" 

"No, no, I've been awake for ages now."

"Okay, good. Listen, sorry I didn't text you yesterday. I was busy, what with Mary coming over and stuff."

"That's ok. Why are you whispering?"

"Oh, um," a pause, "I'm trying not to wake up Mary."

"Oh." Sherlock tried to sound careless, but he felt his nails dig into his palms. "Your parents let you sleep in the same room?"

"Yeah. Well, we're both sixteen. Not a big deal."

Sherlock's chest tightened. "So why didn't you just text me? It's a lot quieter than calling." 

"I wanted to talk to you. The thing is, I didn't see you yesterday at all, until the carriages. And I feel like..."

"What?"

"Like you've been avoiding me." John finally says. "And, I wanted to apologise."

"For what?" 

"I left in a rush that night. I should have stayed. You were drunk. And Merlin knows what state you were in when you woke up."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "That's - fine. No need to apologise. Besides, why do you think I was avoiding you? I was just ill and wanted to stay in bed all day."

"I know you wouldn't have said what you said if you were sober. And I guess with your inhibitions lowered your sense of personal space was a bit off. But I guess I got a bit freaked out. Because," John took a breath, "what you said wasn't true. I don't think. You didn't mean it. And I think you're avoiding me because you were embarrassed. But it's ok."

"Is it?" Now he was really, really confused. 

"Yeah. We all say stuff we don't mean when we're drunk. So I just wanted to say that, if it's okay with you, we're okay, still."

"Good. Yes, that's fine. Never doubted that." 

"Yeah. I get you're not into relationships. You're - asexual? Is that the term? - and that's okay." John's voice had lowered, and if Sherlock didn't know better he'd say it was sad. Most definitely tired. From staying up late with Mary? He tried not to think about it. 

"Yes." He said slowly. "Thank you. Janine didn't seem to get that, though."

"Which is why she set you up with Victor?"

"Yes." He lied.

"Not her cleverest idea. You okay?"

"Yep, fine. Completely recovered from the hangover now."

"Good. I'm guessing you won't be drinking a lot in the future, if at all."

"No." He heard footsteps creak outside, his father's judging by the heavy trod, so he whispered, "I have to go." 

"Okay. Oh, what do you want for Christmas?"

"Don't mind. See you soon."

"See you." 

Sherlock hung up first. He stared into empty space, blinking.

John thought he was lying. 

He thought he was asexual. 

Sherlock couldn't tell if this was an improvement or not.

At least John didn't think Sherlock is completely and utterly in love with him.

But Mary was staying over at the Watsons'. She was meeting the family, having dinner and... having sex with John.

John had has sex.

That's not necessarily true, the small optimistic voice in his head said.

Of course it was true. Sherlock had no reason to deny it. 

In fact, the thought was surprisingly...intriguing. 

Sherlock's libido was normally suppressed, something he kept relatively under control, to focus on school and cases. Besides, it's bad enough he's in love with John. How would he face him if he became the main role in his masturbatory fantasies? But thinking about John, wondering how John would be in bed, picturing John above him, his soft skin against his (not Mary's. In Sherlock's head, Mary never existed) made his prick twitch and Sherlock had to bite his lip to suppress a groan. He allowed himself to indulge, and palm his hardening cock in his pyjamas. He thought about John's hand - his soft skin hardened by callouses from his wand, his long precise fingers perfect for doctors - and in his head, pictured that it was John's hand stroking his cock, the other in his hair, his lips expertly kissing Sherlock's. He imagined John rutting against him, animal-like and desperately growling and he bit his lip to stop himself whimpering out loud at the thought. He peaked within minutes, grabbing a tissue from his drawer just before releasing. He threw it under his bed, making a mental note to dispose of it properly discreetly, before lying back down on the bed. 

Sherlock got up a few minutes later when his mother called him down for breakfast. He ate none of it, his appetite completely gone after the revelations of his phone call with John.


	14. Chapter 14

John came back to Hogwarts after a two-week break, on the sixth of January, by train with Mary. The holidays had been, needless to say, pretty good. Mary met his parents (not for the first time - their families had been friends in the summer holidays), he had gotten great Christmas presents (a book about quidditch from Sherlock, money from his parents, cologne from Mary, a magic trick set from Harry - the same one he had gotten every Christmas since his Hogwarts letter's arrival) and, well, the sex was very very good.

And he didn't think about Sherlock once. 

Well, maybe a bit.

But, in his opinion, John was ready to move on from Sherlock. He hadn't yet; Merlin knew that moving on from Sherlock is almost completely an impossible feat. But hearing Sherlock say that he wasn't into relationships... 

John's heart had sunk down into his stomach, but at least he now knew that his feelings were at a dead end. 

So he focused his thoughts on Mary entirely. He texted Sherlock still, as normal, and sent him his Christmas present - a World's Greatest Tutor mug, as a thank you for his help with the tournament ("don't go quitting on me, mind," John had joked in the letter attached to it, "The next one isn't too far away and I am completely unprepared for it."). But mainly, his thoughts stayed on Mary. 

A vast improvement, he told himself.

Having missed him at the station and not seen him on the train, he met Sherlock outside where the self-drawn carriages. Sherlock was in his uniform - his blue tie done up neatly with cat-like precision, a cloak which now was showing his wrists due to yet another growth spurt, crinkle-less shirts and trousers. John smiled at him with the same enthusiasm as usual, as though nothing had actually changed.

"You've grown again." John gestured to Sherlock's uniform, teasingly.

"You haven't." Sherlock retorted.

"Haven't grown since 4th year, you know that." John said. 

"You alright, Sherlock?" Mary asked, and John jumped slightly when he remembered she was there, "I heard about what happened at the Yule Ball. Sorry about Victor." 

"It's fine. I'm pretty much completely put off alcohol for a while now, though." Sherlock said. They stepped onto the carriage and it set off, rattling and shaking on the uneven path. 

For a while they sat in an awkward silence - what would they have to talk about after a separated holidays? Normally, John and Sherlock would talk about... anything, really: cases, experiments, science, school, his deductions. But it perhaps it was the added element of Mary listening making it hard for John to come up with something, anything, to talk about. And then there was the issue of Sherlock and Mary both being, in a way, the Third wheel. Each of them seemed to separate the other from John - Mary being the girlfriend he had essentially spent the last few months with the most, Sherlock being his best-friend-slash-subject-of-mild-unwanted-romantic-feelings. The carriage rattled on noisily, as though it too wanted to fill in the hiatus 

Thankfully, Mary eventually cut in with, "What did you do over Christmas?" and John came close to breathing a sigh of relief.

"Yeah, any more of those murders?" John asked with interest.

"What?" 

"There was a serial killer near where Sherlock lives over the summer." John explained to Mary, "Stabbings."

"God, really?" Mary said, shocked.

"It was awful. The police wouldn't let me cooperate." Sherlock complained, and John suppressed a bark of laughter, "They haven't caught the murderer yet. But, then, the murders stopped in late August and there haven't been any since." 

"So what did you do over Christmas?" John asked.

"Experiments. Eating food. Visiting family. Nothing of interest."

"Shame. Well, luckily the next round of the tournament is in two months, so hopefully our study sessions will be back on. Little bit less boredom for you, more of a chance of me surviving the tournament for me." John smiled hopefully at Sherlock. "You interested?"

"Of course. Have you been told anything about the next round?" 

"No."

"Well, I'm guessing the next round is the psychological one, so to speak," Sherlock explained, "testing of your mental strengths: decision making, resistance to temptations, morals, that kind of thing. The last one at Hogwarts was a test of decision making, morals and responses to being in a difficult situation. They had to find a person they were close to - friend or family or...otherwise - at the bottom of the lake in under an hour."

"Oh, okay. That should be easy enough." John couldn't resist the tint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Relax, it's probably going to be something easier." Mary said, placing her hand on his. "I'll talk to Janine, see if she knows anything." 

John thanked her and smiled back. 

They carried on talking about the holidays, Mary mentioning her aunt and Sherlock talking in length with her about France and his family living there. Occasionally, if John had said something particularly funny or nice, Mary would kiss his cheek, and Sherlock would stare into space, obviously bothered by public displays off affection. Then Sherlock would tell them about someone he had deduced on the train journey, and Mary would look impressed, and John as ever would sit in wonder and amusement, throwing in the occasional cThe obtrusive silence was gone, thank Merlin, but was instead replaced with eggshells that they were all subconscious avoiding stepping on, an unnamable elephant in the room. Though he didn't know why, the elephant seemed all the more apparent when Sherlock looked between him and Mary, wordless, with emotionless eyes. John left it alone.

~

The day of the second round of the tournament, John was less nervous than he was for the first. Besides the fact that John was completely and utterly unprepared for this, despite having had two months to prepare, and that John had no idea what was happening that day, he was reasonably confident about it. He once managed to pass a defence against the dark arts exam with no revision whatsoever - how hard could this be?

He put his tournament uniform on, checking himself in the mirror one last time, then went down to breakfast, running down the steps to the point he nearly trips over, and entered into the Great Hall. Mary waved him over and he found Sherlock and Janine sitting next to her. The past couple of months they had all been sitting next to each other, rather than separately as they had done before Christmas. John definitely preferred this. He sat down besides Mary and poured himself some pumpkin juice.

"Tell me what I might have to do, again." John asked them.

"If it's a test on decision making, judges would like you to make the most morally-good ones," Sherlock explained, "If you can do more than what is expected of you, do it. Don't back down. Don't be selfish."

"You may have to solve puzzles," Mary suggested, "Riddles and all that."

"Like the door to Ravenclaw common room." John said. "I've never been able to answer those, though. Any advice?"

"Think literally and laterally." Sherlock advised "Double meanings, puns, all can be part of a riddle. Be creative, but sometimes the answer is obvious"

"Worse comes to worst, we shout the answers at you from the audience." Mary shrugged, "Just give us each a share of the ten-thousand galleon prize at the end."

John grinned at them between mouthfuls of bacon. "Is Janine prepared?" He nodded at the girl in question.

"Oh yeah, she'll be fine." Mary said. "She's a bit nervous, I think though." 

"Don't be, it'll be fine. You're good at this." John said to Janine, though he knew she couldn't understand. After Mary translated for her, she smiled nervously back. 

After breakfast, John and Janine left to go to the same tent as in the first round. They were told by Mcgonagall that it would take place in the quidditch field again, making Sherlock suspect that it would be another creature they'd have to fight. When they arrived at the tent, Moran was already there, sitting on the couch with his eyes closed as though he was sleeping. John ignored him and paced the tent, going over in his head the few riddles he knew in preparation.

What always comes but never arrives? Tomorrow.

What has roots as nobody sees,  
Is taller than trees Up, up, up it goes,  
And yet never grows? A mountain

Thirty white horses on a red hill,  
First they champ,  
Then they stamp,  
Then they stand still. What are they? Teeth

How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Harry had told him that one when they were younger. He chuckled at the memory.

Mcgonagall and the other teachers came into the tent and then went to join their respective pupils, except from Mcgonagall who stood in front of them. "Good morning, champions!" She said, "I hope you have been preparing yourselves for this task," Mcgonagall must have seen the amused look on John's face, because she then sighed and went on to say, "Well, Merlin help you if you haven't." Mcgonagall flicked her wand and summoned a rolled up sheet of paper from the table. "This," she announced, "is what you will be facing today." 

The paper unrolled, to reveal a moving photograph of a serpentine creature, repeatedly crawling across the floor of some darkened room towards where the camera would have been. It was long - at least five foot - and had shiny scales coating its body. It's eight scaly legs stuck out from the side of its abdomen, spider like, and at the end of the legs were sharp, needle-like claws. But it was the fave that haunted John the most.

It's eyes were dead and, John guessed, colourless. Its face was flat and surprisingly human-like, with a smirk carved into the bottom of the face and the corner of a sharp tongue darting out threateningly. It was the blend of human and reptile, the dead eyes which, despite being hidden behind a camera, stared straight through John and seemed to be reading his thoughts, the way someone would read someone else's hidden diary, and the fact that it's sly smile suggested it liked what it saw, what the new information could reward it with. John shuddered and wiped his sweaty palms on his uniform. Mcgonagall carried on regardless.

"This is a recent invention of the Ministry of Magic's - using Muggle genetic modification techniques to blend together a regular reptile, a Boggart and an Acromantula to produce this: Araneae cogitatione legendis. Or, to give it its common name: the Milverssen." 

"Vy vould ze ministry create zis?" John heard Madam Maxine ask, shocked. 

"Well, it's still in its developmental phase, so it is considerably safer to use against school children. But the ministry is hoping to use it against criminals, for interrogation or torture or the like." Mcgonagall admitted. John felt his stomach lurch threateningly.

"Ve are not criminals." Moran said. 

"I know that, Mister Moran." Mcgonagall said calmly. "This is simply a test of your mental strength, your ability to clear your mind, to withstand its attempts to identify your pressure points and use it against you. 

"You are given half an hour. If you can defeat it within that time, or you last the entire half hour without giving up, you pass. But if you ask for help or to leave, you fail and receive fewer points. Have I made myself clear?"

John and Moran nodded. 

Mcgonagall gave them fifteen minutes to get ready, telling them that Janine would go first, with John going second and Moran going lady, then left the tent with the other teachers. As soon as she left, Mary and Sherlock came in. 

"I heard what she said. It seems awful!" Mary said. "This can't be legal. Not for students."

"It's fine." John said. "What's it going to do anyway? It's not like I have some secret I need to keep hidden, or something I'm ashamed of..." 

"Everyone has their pressure points." Sherlock said softly.

"Cheers, Sherlock." 

Mary and John sat on the coach, while Sherlock talked to Janine. Mary have John advice. "Keep your mind clear. Don't think about anything. Just focus on one thing - something simple." She said.

"Ever confronted a Milverssen before?" John joked.

"No, but I was taught occumency by - by Beuxbatons." Mary said. "In terms of how to defeat it, just throw whatever you have at it. Spells, jinxes, curses. Whatever works." 

"Just like the Occamy." John said. 

"Exactly." Mary said. 

Their time was nearly up, so they hugged one last time, before Mary left to take her place in the audience. Sherlock went to wish him luck.

"Now would be a pretty good time to tell me anything the Milverssen will pick up on. Don't want any surprises if he reveals you...killed a man, or something."

"No. No secrets." John shook his head, ignoring the doubtful voice in his head. "This will probably be a very dull round, actually. At least for my go, anyway." 

"Shame." 

Sherlock smiled at him one final time, then he too left the tent. John had nothing left to do except sit and wait, going over any possible leverage the Milverssen would have against him.


	15. Chapter 15

The first one to face the Milverssen was Janine, so John waited in the tent and tried practicing clearing and focussing his mind. He listened to the commentator, who was describing what was happening and, apparently, translating the confrontation between them. Apparently, the creature was telling her (in French) and the audience about Janine's boyfriend and the fact she was seeing someone else here while he stayed in France. It also mentioned something about a snow globe she once stole when she was eight (not getting a particular interested reaction, as far as John could tell, from neither Janine nor the crowd, so it carried on sadistically describing Janine's antics with the not-official-boyfriend she was with now.) commentator shouted across the gasping crowd, telling them the spells Janine was flinging recklessly at it in an attempt to shut it up: stupefy, muffliato, expelliamus, ariania exumai. It was the last one that did it - twenty minutes into her given time, it flung the Milverssen across the field and knocked it out cold. The audience applauded. John breathed steadily to soothe his lurching stomach. 

The commentator announced that Janine earned 24 points in total and that the next champion to compete would be John Watson; the audience cheered and applauded threateningly. Again, someone led John to the entrance to the Quidditch field and he entered, his footsteps sinking into the sand until he made his way into the centre. The March wind but through his uniform, so he held his arms against his chest for warmth, an act of protection against his rising anxiety as well as the bitter cold. Then he saw it. 

The Milverssen, stood stoic and still in front of him, was, as John had suspected from the photograph, colourless and greasy, like an old man's hair after several weeks without it being washed. It seemed much, much bigger up close, though it was still only five foot. And as ever, its eyes were grey and piercing, except now up close, it was more shark-like than human-like. John couldn't bear to keep looking, but he didn't have the guts to tear his eyes away, like he was frozen, jinxed in place.

"I was designed to be intimidating," a voice whispered hoarsely - neither male nor female, and John realised it was the Milverssen, "to criminals or the like. You're afraid of me, aren't you?"

John swallowed and shook his head minutely. He still had some pride on him.

"Don't lie," the Milverssen chastised, it's mouth grinning wickedly, "you're not going to be emasculated for such a simple emotion as fear. Or is your self esteem really that fragile?" It scoffed. John could hear some members of the audience sniggering along with it. The creature continued, "Because that's a weakness of yours - your pressure point. You're determined to fit in with what is expected of you. As a boy. As a wizard." Keep your mind clear, John told himself. Think of nothing. "Tell me, do your friends know of your mudblood status? Is that something else you are ashamed of?"

John almost laughed. "No one cares about that anymore," he said bravely. "They know."

"Oh?" The brow of the creature creased, as though it would raise an intrigued eyebrow, if it had any. "Forgive me. I'm still in my developmental stage. It's a difficult task, to pick and choose out of the information I am given," the beast scuttled towards John, and he resisted the urge to step away from it, "to know what exactly to do and say before my victim snaps." The creature grew in size until it was at eye level with John. It's eyes wandered around John, flickering greedily as it - read? - John. John instinctively stepped backwards. Don't think, don't think, don't think. 

John pulled his wand out of his pocket and shouted, "Expelliamus!" causing the Milverssen to fly back away from him and land in a heap in the sand, only to stand back up again with an even bigger grin, exposing sharp yellow canines.

"Very good, John. But it will take more than that to defeat me. Why not do what that Janine girl did? Oh, I see." He looked over at the judges' panel, where ministry representatives and teachers were watching, writing. "You won't get many marks for copying your rival. You're very determined to win, aren't you? Is it for the money? Because heaven knows your family needs it. Or is it to impress someone? Mmh..."

John held his wand out in front of him instinctively, silently keeping the beast at a safe distance from him. Still the creature's grey, empty eyes followed him, narrowing, focusing. Then it smiled triumphantly. John's throat tightened. 

"If it is to impress someone, then it's not your girlfriend, is it. You don't care about her opinion of whether you win or lose." Stop it, stop it, stop it. John could feel the audience leaning towards them. His hands sweated nervously, as he gripped onto his wand tighter. "No. It's a boy's opinion you care about: your best friend's. Sherlock Holmes. Your in love with him."

"No! John protested above the gasps and jeers of the audience. "You're wrong. I swear. I'm - "

"Not gay?" The Milverssen's voice turned female, and it transformed before John's eyes from the reptile-arachnid hybrid into a girl. Dark hair, red lipstick, cat-like eyes, and with only a grey-ish tint around her skin to show it was in fact the Milverssen, John recognised her - it? - easily. Irene Adler. "I know. I heard you." 

When John and Sherlock were in fifth year, they encountered a case with a seventh year named Irene Adler, who had several compromising pictures on her phone of the Head Girl of that time, their client. Sherlock had tried to steal her phone to get the photos back for their client, but then Irene turned on Sherlock: intimidating him, flirting with him only to then spread rumours about him (fruitlessly, thank Merlin; no one for one second believed that the unsociable, inexperienced boy-detective could have done anything Irene had said). So then John had confronted Irene about it, telling her to stop, particularly with the flirting and screwing with Sherlock's head, only for her to tease him. "So protective," she'd said, "so jealous. You'd make a great boyfriend."

"I'm not gay." He'd responded, but he could not deny the way his voice faltered, his heart sped up anxiously, a mixture of fear and sadness washing over him. Irene had dismissed him with a laugh.

And now these words were being flung back at him again. 

"You've always been in love with him, yet you never did anything about it." The Milverssen-Irene tutted. "You just got back together with the first girl to fling herself at you, swept along with the current. You don't actually love her." It was not a question. 

John could imagine both Mary and Sherlock now - shocked, betrayed, uncomfortable in every possible way. Were they sitting together? Would they be avoiding eye contact? John felt shaking, not because of the cold.

"You're afraid, John Watson." the girl whispered cruelly, circling him slowly. "Of Sherlock. Of your friends. Of your family. Of yourself. You're a coward." It spat out the last word with such ferocity, that something in John just...sparked. "You're nothing but a great big co - "

It never got to finish. John yelled out the first spell that came into his head to shut it up - "petrificus totallus!" - and it collapsed onto the ground, frozen in Irene's form, a bitter reminder. Not that it was needed.

He hurried out of the stadium and back to the tent, not caring whether or not he was even supposed to go there. On his way there, he passed Moran, who stared at him with a small, proud, calculating smirk on his face. He ignored him, as he decided he would for the rest of his life to anyone he sold come into contact with after the humiliation of this round.

He collapsed onto the couch and curled up, his back facing away from the tent door. He felt his eyes sting bitterly and inhaled shakily, trying to calm himself down.

Once in primary school he had liked a girl so one day he decided to pass her a note in class. He couldn't remember what it said, but the teacher had found it and read it out in front of the whole class. John had never felt more embarrassed.

But this was not embarrassment. This was something on a much, much larger scale. 

This was genuine fear.

It was right, John thought, I am a coward. 

He didn't allow himself the luxury of crying. Instead he breathed slowly in and out and kept his eyes opened and blinking furiously, while he prayed silently to Merlin, to God, to anyone for all he cared, for a convenient meteor to come crashing down and kill everyone in this stupid cruel castle. 

"You got a total score of twenty."

John recognised the voice instantly - Sherlock. He was suddenly and overwhelmingly angry. "If you're here to mock me then don't bother. I've had enough of that today for a lifetime."

"I'm not here to mock you." Sherlock's voice sounded soft, calm. Bastard. "Can we just...talk?"

"What's there to talk about?" John spat, sitting himself up to face Sherlock. He was standing by the door, fiddling with his hands nervously. "I think everything we have to say is well and truly out in the open."

"Not everything." 

"Of course not, Mister Literal, Mister Must-Correct-Everyone." John snapped. "You know what, fine. Talk. Ask me questions. Ask me my dick size for all I care. I'm pretty much an open book now."

"Merlin, you're dramatic." Sherlock came and sat on the stool, dragging it across until he was sat opposite John. 

"Says you." John muttered. He looked up shyly to see Sherlock rewarding him with a small smile. Okay, they were making jokes now. This was a good start. Perhaps they could forget all about this and carry on their friendship as normal?

"I have a few questions." Sherlock said. "The first is, for how long have you li- been in love with me?" The words sounded foreign in Sherlock's mouth. 

"Oh, um, I don't know. Probably since fourth year. Longer than I've been aware of. Why do you want to know?" John asked. His heart was beating so fast he felt sick. "Because I know why you're here. You're going to say -" John made his voice lower, doing an impression of Sherlock-"'listen, John, I'm flattered by your interest but I don't like people, especially you, in that way. I'm an asexual sociopath who doesn't need human emotion. All I care about is the Work but don't worry we can still be - "

But John was stopped by Sherlock pressing his mouth against his. It wasn't particularly romantic - in fact it was fairly obvious that Sherlock had never kissed anyone before I his entire life; John was fairly certain Sherlock was holding his breath while his (soft, chapped gorgeous) lips were trapped against his. But something about knowing that it was Sherlock who was kissing him, it was Sherlock's hand covering his, made John freeze in shock, his brain complete shut off, before it even occurred to him to kiss back.

By then Sherlock had pulled back, an unfamiliar look of uncertainty spread over his face as his eyes ran over John's face, deducing, checking. Not unlike the way the Milverssen had done. Except its eyes were dead, inhuman. Sherlock's were very much alive - glowing in comforting and exotic greens and blues. John had never been more in love. 

"I did it wrong, didn't I." Sherlock muttered. John gaped in awe, and smiled adoringly.

"No - well, a bit. But that doesn't matter. Why did you do that?" John suddenly felt breathless.

"You wouldn't shut up. It was the first thing that came into my head that would both keep you quiet and convey what I have to say. Effective, don't you think?" Sherlock grinned boyishly.

"So you're - "

"Yes."

"And I'm - "

"Yes."

"We're both - "

"Apparently so."

John leaned back, trying to process everything that had happened in the last two minutes. He sat back up to face Sherlock, grinning stupidly. "I feel so stupid."

"So do I."

"I can imagine. The great Sherlock Holmes had no idea I was in love with him? You're a disgrace to your name." John was teasing him.

"I thought you were straight." Sherlock shrugged.

"Merlin, no." John laughed. "I thought you weren't into relationships and...feelings and all that

"I wasn't. You're the first." 

John sat there staring at Sherlock for a second, before he leant over to kiss him. Properly. Sherlock, though he went rigid at first in surprise, soon relaxed and arm travelled to John's shoulders, pulling him closer. John's hands in response rested, one at Sherlock's waist, the other in Sherlock's hair, the way he had imagined for the last year or so. 

Sherlock, John noticed, was copying John's actions - tilting his head, moving his jaw ever so slightly, using only the barest hint of tongue as they shared breaths (Sherlock tasted of coffee and mint toothpaste; John could only hope he didn't taste too hideous.) Soon he was kissing back expertly and independently, as though he'd been doing it for years, not minutes. John felt dizzy and held onto Sherlock tighter until Sherlock had come completely off his stool and was practically sitting in John's lap.

They broke apart for oxygen, leaning their foreheads against each other and grinning.

"You're a very quick learner." John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "Ravenclaw. I enjoy learning."

"I enjoy teaching you."

"Good, there's still some things I want to learn, and I'd like to carry on kissing you for as long as possible." Sherlock's smile turned small and flirtatious. 

"Did you just ask me out?" John giggled.

"Yes. Well?"

"Of course I'll go out with you, you git." John laughed. 

"Pet names already? I feel so treasured." 

John grinned. "Come on, we can't stay in this tent forever. People will be wondering where we are."

At that point, the commentator outside announced Moran to be finished, with an impressive 28 points, and was the winner of this round. John decided, as he walked out of the tent hand-in-hand with Sherlock to the Great Hall where they would be seeving lunch, that he could not care less, ten thousand galleon prize be damned.

~

When John left the stadium, Mary left too, back to Beuxbatons' carriage, where she knew she would be alone.

She didn't cry over the Milverssen's announcement. She wasn't that weak.

Instead, when she reached her bed in the dorm room in the carriage, she sat down calmly, angrily, and contemplated everything.

John did not love her.

John loved Sherlock.

John was a liar.

Moriarty was right.

His voice echoed in her ears again, the words were prophecies about John's mental infidelity, telling her that she would be wanting revenge, reminding her of the life she used to have before the Battle of Hogwarts and before her parents lost their lives.

She took the card - his card - from the drawer next to her, and stared at it, thoughtfully tracing the swirly writing of the man's name with her thumb.

One side of her told her that this was stupid, petty even. Was this really something worthy of revenge? He's just a boy. 

The other side of her reminded the other that this is not just about the boy. This could be an escape from the everyday mundaneness of France and Beuxbatons and its restrictions. This could be a chance to learn things her school wouldn't dare teach, improve her potential in the things she had learnt in her days working for her parents.

And power. She was certain that Moriarty had mentioned power. Or at least implied it.

The man's insane, her conscience said.

So were my parents, she reasoned back, therefore so am I. 

You're a fool.

At midnight, after a long day of avoiding all interactions and pitiful looks from her fellow students, she crept out of her bed, put on a thick jumper and some shoes, then tiptoed out of the carriage ghosting across the floorboards as silent as the night until she reached the door. She barely noticed the cold as she walked to the Forbidden Forest, her heart in her throat. 

She didn't wander for long through the forest, holding her wand out in front of her under a 'lumos' spell, before she found Moriarty standing casually in his suit, his greased back hair shining under the moonlight and her wand's light. He was smiling wickedly. Mary - Alissia, even, if she was going to do this she'd have to accept her true identity - stared right back at him.

"I've considered your offer," she said, "and I accept."

His smile grew brighter. "Excellent. Do you have some time on your hands? I have to introduce you to someone." 

Alissia stayed still, still holding her wand out defensively, then she saw the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of someone in the trees. It approached them, and Alissia soon came to realise that the person was in fact Moran. He stood next to Moriarty. It was almost comical how small the man now looked compared to him.

"Sebby here has been a great help to me." Moriarty explained to Alissia, "smuggling me into the castle, giving me food and drink, helping me with my plan." 

"What is the plan?" Alissia asked.

"I'll explain later but first- " Moriarty grabbed Alissia's left wrist with his left hand making her wince - "take my wrist." They stood like this as though they were shaking hands. Alissia could feel his pulse through his wrist, calm and relaxed. "Now, Sebby, would you be a dear?"

Moran, seemingly without instruction, tapped their wrist with his wand and murmured some spell under his breath, causing Alissia's and Moriarty's hands to glow. Alissia's eyes widened in understanding.

"Do you, Mar - Alissia, sorry - promise to complete all of James Moriarty's tasks, no matter what they may be?" Moran said. 

"I do."

"Will you be loyal to Moriarty for as long as he will need you?"

"I will."

"And in return, will you, Jim, give Alissia power, money and the vengeance she seeks?"

"I will."

Their hands stopped glowing and they finally let go. Alissia's wrist was aching from Moriarty's snake-like grip, so she rubbed it with her other hand, staring straight at Moriarty. He nodded approvingly.

"Very good, Miss Adams" He said. "Same time tomorrow night." It wasn't a request.

Alyssia nodded steadily.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, you may have noticed a change in the tags
> 
> This chapter is almost entirely skippable. A few foreshadowing points, here and there, some hints at character developments, but nothing too important I don't think.

John broke up with Mary the next morning. 

He approached her in the Great Hall at breakfast while she was sat with Janine. They both looked up at him - Mary coolly, Janine in surprise - and Janine nodded in understanding before sitting elsewhere. Mary glared at him.

"Are you going to sit?" She asked coldly, gesturing to the empty seat in front of her.

"No, I'm not going to be here long." John fiddled with his sleeve anxiously and looked down at the floor.

"You know, there was no point in coming here. I assumed that we were broken up anyway." 

"I know, I just wanted to - officially break it up, I guess." He scratched the back of his neck. "So, are we okay?"

Mary shook her head. "Not really. You are, I suppose," she looked over to the table in front of her, stared straight at where Sherlock was sitting and, John assumed, watching, "Are you two a couple now?"

"Yes." No point beating around the bush, he thought. Although, hearing him and Sherlock referred to as a 'couple' still sounded odd in his ears, and he had to fight to conceal the ill-timed smile which crept onto his face.

"Fine. Congratulations." Mary stood up, leaving her breakfast, "I hope you two will be very happy together."

"Mary - "

"You deserve what's coming to you." 

Mary left the hall in a rush with Janine trailing behind her. 

John sat back down opposite to Sherlock. 

"So?" Sherlock asked. His lip was slightly swollen where he had been chewing it anxiously.

"I think she took it rather well. She was surprisingly unemotional, actually," John said.

"That's good, isn't it?" 

John shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Sherlock smiled at him before going back to eating his breakfast. He did that a lot since the day before, smiling.

~

Sherlock enjoyed being John's boyfriend.

There were negatives, of course. Since the day of the second round of the tournament, the number of people making snide remarks and nudging and winking at them increased. There was also a lot of "about damn time"s going around. People generally now felt obligated to talk to him, people who Sherlock never used to talk to, let alone with pleasantries. Perhaps if John hadn't been so sociable...

And then there was Mary and Janine. He never spoke to Mary anymore. If they made eye contact, one of them would turn away; Sherlock sheepishly, Mary haughtily. He rarely spoke to Janine anymore, mainly because she was always the one to start conversations, and her allegiance to Mary meant that some unspoken law prevented her from talking to the current boyfriend of her best friend's ex boyfriend. But she would smile at him, maybe talk for a short amount of time about nothing in particular before they would move on to wherever they would have to be. 

And the term 'boyfriend', though nice, seemed odd. In his mind, referring to John as his 'boyfriend' didn't come entirely naturally at first, as he had spent so long seeing him as his best friend and object of his (then) unrequited love. 

But all in all, Sherlock liked being John's boyfriend. He liked that he could hold his hand whenever he wanted (John's hand was small but fitted perfectly in his). He liked that now whenever one walked the other to his dorm in the evening they could kiss each other goodnight (John was a fascinatingly amazing kisser). He loved when John's hand would rest on his knee when they are together in the Hall. He loved that now the worry that his feelings would be discovered and disapproved of he had had previously was lifted off his chest, he was now relatively carefree, and able to make room for being happy in John's presence.

But the thing which Sherlock regarded with most surprise was that aside from the kissing, the hand holding, the open flirting -everything remained quite normal. They still studied in the library for exams, they still had inside jokes and laughed at nothing, John still elbowed him whenever one of Sherlock's deductions crossed over some kind of line.

In short, everything was, if the word was not too hyperbolic, perfect.

~

On their 37th day of being together they were studying in the library when a young girl in a Hufflepuff scarf who couldn't have been older than a third year approached them shyly, introducing herself as Tiana Tolkan and saying that she had lost her charm necklace. 

"I've heard you help people with things. Solve puzzles. You helped my sister two years ago," she said, "her stuff was stolen - "

"I'm sorry, I can't take the case, I'm incredibly busy right now," Sherlock cut in.

"No he's not." 

"I am. I'm studying."

"You've never studied for a single exam in your life." 

"This time, I am." Sherlock turned back to the girl. "Try seeing your head of house about it. Someone who won't be completely bored - "

"Please, Sherlock," Tiana pleaded, "it's my grandmother's. It's been passed down my family for ages. She'd kill me if she knew I lost it." 

Sherlock looked at the girl's face - pouting, desperate - then John's - expecting, frowning pointedly - then sighed. "Fine. What does it look like?"

Tiana went on to describe the necklace- a blue and purple charm on a black string - and that she last had it two days ago in the Forbidden Forest, having worn it during a Magical Creatures lesson. Sherlock nodded then left for the forest, John by his side, assuring the girl he would have it by the next morning.

"When I have my consultant detective business set up," Sherlock grumbled later as they kicked up leaves, casting 'Accio' everywhere only for nothing to appear, "I will be able to choose better cases. Not dull ones, with missing jewellery or murders where the culprit is so obvious that Lestrade could solve it. And I'll get payed for it."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Sherlock, but - " John stopped to cast a quick summoning charm, in vain - "at first, you're going to need any case you can get. The consultant detective business isn't exactly popular."

"I'll be the first."

"Exactly. No one will want to go to some eighteen year old Hogwarts graduate no one has ever really heard of. You'd need to make a name for yourself. By taking any case that people come to you with."

Sherlock huffed. "I've already been in the Daily Prophet."

"Once. And it wasn't exactly a front page story."

"Well, then, maybe you can be in charge of publicity when we work together." 

It was a fairly harmless and, Sherlock had thought, obvious statement, but John had a surprised expression and looked in silence at him for several seconds. "You want me to work with you."

"I thought that was established years ago. I'm a person of habit, John, and you've been a part of my work since first year." Sherlock frowned in confusion. "What else would happen?"

"I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it." John kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Sherlock wasn't sure that it was for this necklace they were searching for. "Well I had. I'd thought that maybe we'd - go our separate ways. After we leave Hogwarts. I go into medicine. You set up your detective business. We keep in touch for a while then we just...forget. Move on. That was until we - became boyfriends." The last word lingered in the air for a second, and Sherlock relished it. "Then I never considered what could happen. I just focused on what was happening now, y'know?"

Sherlock walked over to John and stood in front of him, "Well, I would very much like it," Sherlock said quietly, "if you could stay in my work, and my life, for as long as possible after we leave."

John's face softened and smiled. "Really?"

"Even when we were just friends, I'd hoped for it." Sherlock paused, "is that too much too soon? Its probably a little early for all...this. But I don't see why it's not possible. Look at Harry and Ginny Potter; apparently they met at Hogwarts. At least that's what the biographies say. Apart from Rita Skeeter, who - "

"No. I'd like it." John's smile widened. Then he continued walking again, "but I hope I have more of a role than just publicity."

"Oh, definitely."

The smile on Sherlock's face didn't leave for ages.

They continued to search for a while, to no avail, until a sudden crack of thunder sounded and it began to rain. At first it was light enough to ignore, but then it grew heavier, rain somehow getting past all the levels of leaves above them and soaking them through.

"Sherlock, we should go now." John hugged his arms close to his chest for warmth. "Try again tomorrow."

"No. We have a case."

"Earlier you were saying how dull it was."

"I made my client a promise. Look, there's some shelter over there in that tree. You can wait in there if you want." Sherlock pointed at a large tree, hollowed out in a way which made it look like a doorway into the inside of the tree.

"You don't even have a coat with you, Sherlock." John said, raising his voice above the rain. "You'll get a cold."

"I'll be fi - John!" John had grabbed Sherlock's wrist and was now dragging him towards the tree. Sherlock ducked obligingly, rolling his eyes, to get inside the hollowed tree, and was relieved to find that the 'ceiling' was high enough that he could stand up straight without hitting his head. The only issue was that, though the tree was wider than average, it wasn't wide enough to allow both him and John to have some sense of personal space inside it, and Sherlock ended up with bark pressed up against his back and John standing right in front of him, his face almost pressed against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's heart sped up rapidly from John's presence, even if they were now going out.

"Maybe this wasn't the best idea," Sherlock said in a low voice, knowing he could be heard well enough in this confined space, despite how loudly the rain hit again the ground outside.

"Better than you getting ill. And look," John stroked Sherlock's hair, "your hair's losing its curl. It will be ruined."

"That's what happens when my hair gets wet, it's not a big deal. Unless I look so absolutely replulsive..."

John was giggling. "You look like that portrait of Severus Snape in Mcgonagall's office." 

Sherlock gasped, mock affronted. "I'm insulted. I'm not nearly as ugly as him. Or as rude."

"Well, it was your polite charm that attracted me to you in the first place." Sherlock laughed at John's sarcasm.

"But you agree about the ugly bit? Not-ugly bit, I mean."

"Of course." The corners of John's lips turned down to show that on this, he was completely serious. "You're one of the most...non-ugly people I know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, scoffing. "'Non-ugly'. I'm swooning. Have you ever considered taking up poetry?" 

John smiled. "I mean it. You're incredibly attractive. Like, it's almost abnormal. I've never seen anyone like you."

Sherlock felt a blush crawling up his neck. It was surprising, how quickly their tone had changed. "I... um, thank you. I mean, I've never found myself attractive. I've just kind of tolerated myself. But you are too. Attractive. Very much so..." Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, as John tipped his head up so that their eyes met, then kissed him, making him make a noise from the back of his throat with surprise. 

Sherlock kissed back, open mouthed immediately, without nearly as much thought and nerves as their first kiss, which seemed a lifetime ago - instead his actions were as unconscious as though kissing him was a reflex that was keeping him alive. All he could think about was the way John's tongue slid against his and the breathy moans John was making into his mouth and the way his hands held on tightly and possessivesly to his hips. Sherlock wondered if it would leave marks there. He shivered involuntarily at the thought.

Sherlock hands gripped onto John's shoulders to prevent his knees from buckling weakly against him. John's hand was in his hair, tugging lightly and Sherlock couldn't help the gasps which resulted from John's actions on his sensitive scalp. Then Sherlock bit down on John's lower lip - experimental - and the noise John made travelled straight down to the bottom of Sherlock's belly. 

John was pressing into Sherlock and the bark in the tree pressed into his back, which would have hurt, except Sherlock was too focused on the way John was kissing his jawline and the pulse point on his neck and the way his knee was pressed between Sherlock's thighs and rubbing against him - oh.

Sherlock broke away, gasping for breath, blushing scarlet. John looked at him questioningly, his hands still on his hair.

"I - um - "

"What's wrong?"

"I think we should stop kissing." Sherlock murmured. 

John opened his mouth to ask why, but then his eyes widened in understanding. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

"It's fine."

"I could - give you a minute. It will go away soon - if I leave.." Sherlock noticed how John's eyes slid down, apparently unintentionally, to what Sherlock suspected to be the obvious bulge in his trousers, and how his mouth opened slightly, discreetly, and he breathed out shakily. 

Sherlock considered the situation for a moment.

He was currently in a hollow tree, large enough to fit two people in, but too small to allow them much space.

He was currently sharing said space with John Watson, his attractive boyfriend of 37 days, with whom he had only 24 minutes ago requested to spend the rest of his life with, and he had agreed. 

And he currently, after kissing him for only 8 minutes, was very obviously aroused.

And John Watson seemed to find that appealing.

"If it's okay with you, no."

"No?"

Sherlock leant back in to kiss John, with the same urgency as before, hoping that it would convey everything he wanted to say. This time it was John who broke away. 

"Are you sure? You want to - do this?"

"Yes." 

"Here." John said, disbelieving.

"Yes."

"Having never done it before, ever."

"If you're comfortable with it, yes."

"In a tree."

"I didn't have a problem with it earlier."

"It's not uncomfortable?"

Sherlock paused, then shrugged, "It is a bit, I guess." He spent a moment thinking (surprisingly clearly, considering how uncomfortably aroused he was, and how painfully close John was standing), then a grin grew on his face as an idea dawned on him. "Are you still...open to persuasion? If I could change the location?"

John's eyes blazed suddenly, wickedly, and his lips (red, swollen from kissing, positively intoxicating) tugged into a smile. "By all means, lead the way. Not the dorms, though. Too public."

"No. I have a better idea."

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and led him through the forest. It was still raining, and the wind had picked up a bit so that the cold was enough for his transport to become slightly less insistent, though his thoughts were still only consisting of the promise of what was to come, and his heart hammered visibly in his chest from excitement and nerves. Still, Sherlock led the way with determination, and was only distracted by something glimmering and familiar on the forest floor. He stopped and knelt down to get it, then put it in his front left trouser pocket before getting back up to speed out to where the forest ended. 

"What was that?" John called from behind him. 

"Miss Tolkan's necklace." Sherlock replied.

"But if it was so close the whole time, then why couldn't we summon it?"

"Some objects - precious ones - are charmed so that no one else can summon them. Security measures."

"Oh. Well, at least we got what we came for."

Sherlock hummed without commitment, and the conversation ceased from there.

Sherlock walked through the entrance to the castle and paced through the hall, concentrating fiercely, knowing that John was following behind.

"Do you actually have a place, Sherlock? Or are you just walking up and down hoping one would magically appear - ah."

From what was once a plain stone wall, a black door with intricate swirls decorating it appeared, and Sherlock smirked smugly back at John. "You were saying?"

"Just get inside." John huffed, opening the door and walking inside, Sherlock following suit. 

The room was large and full of old relics from centuries of its existence: old ripped school books soaked in dried ink, cages for what would have been for small creatures, used for pets or classes, cupboards with dust-coated uniforms and everyday clothes, a burnt dummy shredding to splinters. In the centre were multiple old beds, with rusty frames and mattresses worn down with age 

"What's this?" John said curiously. 

"The room of requirement." Sherlock replied. "My mother told me about it a few years ago. When she was in her Hogwarts years, she used it for studying. The DA then used it in the 90's for training and for protection leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts. I imagine the beds are where they slept when they were in hiding."

"So, you just have to...require it?"

"You have to focus on what you want, and the room appears."

"So, you just spent the past few minutes thinking 'I need a room to shag my boyfriend in' and this - " John gestured around -"appeared?"

Sherlock tried to reserve some dignity by not blushing, in vain, making him feel all the more self conscious. "If you want to be crude, then yes." 

John chuckled and turned around to face him and put his hand in Sherlock's hair, stroking it softly, making Sherlock shudder. "You're sensitive, on your scalp." John muttered.

"Not a difficult deduction." Sherlock managed to gasp out just as John leant in to start kissing a particular spot under his earlobe. 

"I love kissing you, Sherlock. I want to kiss you everywhere, see where else you're sensitive. Is this okay?"

Sherlock moaned in response and he felt John smile against his skin.

"Good. But you should know, I'm not the expert you probably think me to be."

"Who says I think you're an expert?" Sherlock's voice had dropped at least one octaves and it startled him with how unfamiliar it sounded. 

"Still." John leant back to look at John in the eyes, pupils blown wide. "I've only done this with one person, and that was a girl, so I basically have no idea what I'm doing."

"Good." Sherlock kissed him deeply, then started manoeuvring them towards a bed. "We can figure it out together."

They collapsed onto the springy mattress without breaking apart once, and Sherlock immediately started tugging at the bottom of John's jumper, asking silently for permission for it to be removed. John shook his head. 

"Easy, now. Slowly, okay?"

Sherlock huffed in agreement, then continued to kiss him, all tongues and heat, one hand in John's hair, the other on his shoulder so that John was pressed down firmly on him and his erection could be felt on his thigh. The knowledge that he was the one who made John aroused, and that John wanted to do this - whatever this entailed - with Sherlock, of all people, was too much to handle. 

"Screw 'slowly'," Sherlock groaned against John's jawline. He could feel the beginnings of a stubble there - though he knew John could probably grow no more than a small stubble, and only needed to shave every two months - and rubbed his lips against it tentatively. The response was satisfactory, to say the least. "I want those clothes off." 

John grinned, "Eager," but he obediently sat up, still straddling Sherlock's waist, to allow for his jumper to be taken off, then for Sherlock to unbutton then slip off his shirt underneath, so that his torso was completely bare, and Sherlock could do nothing but look.

John was short, and often wore old shirts and jumpers that concealed his appearance so that to the average eye, he was just an ordinary sixteen year old with an ordinary sixteen year old figure. And Sherlock had been fooled up until a certain point into also believing that this was true - not that he had really given much thought to his friend's physical appearance at the time. Then Sherlock had started romanticising, picturing a fine, chiselled torso writhing above him in dreams, like the kind he'd see on TV or on billboards in the city, though he knew that this wasn't realistic. 

And though John was no matured, aesthetically idyllic sixteen year old, what Sherlock had in front of him was much, much better. Because this was the real John Watson on top of him. 

John's shoulders were broad - broader than Sherlock's, whose appearance, he felt, dulled in comparison. He was slightly tanned, though he had paled slightly throughout the winter, with skin sprinkled with scattered moles and freckles, like constellations on his skin. His stomach was by no means the chiselled, flat six-pack that he had sometimes fantasised about, but it was perfect, simply because it was John's.  
And his nipples were erect and dark against the rest of his chest, which was heaving heavily as though he had run a mile. 

Sherlock's mouth inexplicably watered at the sight of him. He wanted to touch him, taste him, know every square inch of John's body.

"Sherlock, what are you - oh!"

John cried out as Sherlock flipped them over on the bed so that John was beneath him, causing the mattress springs to creek uneasily and took John's left nipple into his mouth, nipping it and brushing it with his lips. Sherlock pulled back uncertainly. "Is that okay?"

"Yes! Yes. Please. Don't stop." 

Sherlock licked at it again, curiously, and was delighted to feel it pebbling under his touch. He continued to nip at it, relishing in the noises John was making as he writhed under Sherlock's grip on his hips. He then moved up to John's neck, leaving open mouthed kisses across his collarbone and jawline and pulse point, tasting John's skin. 

"Sherlock - oh Christ - " John, Sherlock had noticed over the past six years, switched back from the Wizard curses and expletives that he had grown used to saying over the years (John had always denied it, but he did want to blend in with people around him, and lamguage proved this) to Muggle blasphemes in situations of extreme stress or, in this case, arousal - "Sherlock, stop." 

Sherlock's heart sunk as he looked into John's eyes. "Did I do it wrong?"

"Wrong? God, no." A ghost of a laugh came out of John's lips. "You are - brilliant, Sherlock. It's just that, if you keep doing that - with your mouth - this might not last long. And you still have all your clothes on."

"I wouldn't mind." Sherlock said, though his erection was straining against his trousers incredibly uncomfortably.

"I do." And John took Sherlock by the back of his neck and leant up to kiss him.

John started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, then peeled it off his shoulders, gently, like he was unwrapping a delicate Christmas present, with a grin to match. John's eyes wandered over Sherlock's torso, shining and dark.

"You have goosebumps," he observed in a low voice.

"I'm cold. And wet still, from the rain."

"I'd have to warm you up, then, won't I."

John immediately set to work on Sherlock's trousers, nimble fingers undoing Sherlock's buttons and zip with the same precision of a doctor. Of a surgeon, Sherlock thought to himself.

"Is this really the best way to go about warming me up? Taking my clothes off?" Sherlock croaked, lifting his hips up to allow John to slide his trousers off and leave it in a pool on the floor. The relief of taking the pressure off his now fully-hard cock made him sigh out loud.

"Patience, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, before observing, "Your jeans are still on."

John smirked shyly at him, before moving his hands to his trouser buckle. He undid it quickly enough in retrospect, but at that point the action seemed so slow, so erotic that Sherlock had to bite back a groan. Especially when John's hands skimmed over the bulge in his crotch and his hips thrust minutely upwards.

"Merlin, John. Here, let me." John retracted his hands, and Sherlock undid John's buttons and zip, fumbling slightly, then pulled it off him, leaving him only in his boxers. 

"Can I take these off too?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Be my guest." John's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. 

Sherlock was more careful this time, more cautious. He slowly edged John's boxers down to his thighs and his erection sprung free. Sherlock stared, frozen. 

It was fully hard and resting against his stomach, red - like John's lips after being thoroughly kissed - and already leaking slightly, prominent compared to the pale white of John's abdomen. Sherlock looked into John's eyes, seeking consent, and John nodded, trusting. 

His heart hammered in his chest, as he tentatively stroked John's cock, slowly. In fact his hand had barely touched it when John moaned loudly and cursed and in response Sherlock moved his hand faster, though still without complete confidence. Still, John was thrusting upwards into his hand, grabbing at the bed sheets like it was the only thing keeping him stable.

"Fuck - Sherlock - keep doing that."

"Like this?"

"Yes - yes. But, you can apply more pressure. And faster. Please." 

Sherlock did so obligingly, and John swore, his hands moved to the nape of Sherlock's neck and then they were kissing, desperate, wet, clumsy, but Sherlock groaned into John's mouth.

His thumb moved over the tip of John's prick, gathering pre-come and using it as a lubricant, making his hand actions smoother. John responded with broken praises and curses. His hand then moved to John's balls, gently fondling and stroking them. Everything he did was still with an ounce of nervousness, with only the knowledge from what he'd sometimes do to himself when his transport became too insistent to simply ignore. He felt John tense beneath his touch. John cried out Sherlock's name in warning, and soon he was coming, pulse after pulse shooting out of him onto his stomach and into Sherlock's hand. 

John collapsed on the mattress, breathless. Sherlock was breathing hard as well, as though he had come as well though he still remained hard and untouched and clad in his own underwear. 

"God, Sherlock," John breathed out, "You were - God, that was better than I'd ever imagined. Fuck." 

"Really?"

"Jesus - yes. And I used to spend quite some time imagining."

Sherlock felt heat spread throughout every part of him. "Oh?"

"There were some points where I thought I'd never get to look you in the eye again." John's pupils were still dilated, though his prick had softened. "The things I imagined - so vivid, so unlike what you seemed to be in real life: cold, emotionless, uninterested in other humans. This was all before..."

"I thought of you too." Sherlock whispered. "I tried not to, and it was only a couple of times, but - "

"What would you have me do? In your head."

"Everything." 

Sherlock felt John's prick hardening again against his thigh, as though he had never orgasmed. "Everything?"

"Touching me, kissing me." Sherlock closed his eyes at the thought, biting his bottom lip, "Rutting against me. And I would do things to you too."

"Jesus." John breathed out shakily. His hand slid down Sherlock's ribs to Sherlock's underwear, and he traced it carefully. "Take those off. You must be uncomfortable." 

Sherlock didn't have to be told twice. He took his underwear off speedily - quicker than he had thought possible - and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Good. Now, what do we do with this?" John's hand stroked Sherlock's cock once and he groaned, feeling as though every part of him had been set on fire. 

"Anything. Please."

"Within reason, of course. I haven't got any protection on me." 

Sherlock nodded, and his reply was cut short by John flipping them over, causing Sherlock's breath to catch in his throat. 

"If you don't like this, tell me to stop, okay?" John said. "If I'm doing it wrong, or different to how you like it, say." 

Sherlock gave a small nod, and on cue John's hand stroked Sherlock and Sherlock cried out in pleasure. His hips thrust upwards, seeking friction. He kept his eyes wide open, staring at John's face as he looked back. Every sense was overwhelmed with the presence of John, and the fact that John was touching him, stroking him, looking at him like he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

John was still hard, though, and Sherlock remembered this. So he pulled John's hand away, then he thrust up so that his cock aligned with John's, and they were rutting and rubbing against each other. John caught on and mimicked Sherlock's actions from above, creating a friction between them that made them both moan in unison.

"God - you genius, you absolute genius, Sherlock." John leaned down and started kissing Sherlock, open mouthed, tongue sliding against tongue, licking at Sherlock's bottom lip. John was fucking him with his tongue. A new heat pooled in his lower abdomen, spreading throughout his groin to his thighs. Then without warning his orgasm rippled through him and the world for a moment went black. 

He breathed heavily as he pulsed three, four, five times against his stomach, and he felt John come soon after until the stickiness between them was a combination of both their mess. John collapsed against Sherlock, resting his head on his shoulder.

"Wow." Sherlock managed to gasp out, when the aftershocks of the orgasm subsided. 

"Yeah."

"That was - " 

"Breathe, Sherlock. Your breathing rate and pulse rate are going incredibly fast."

Sherlock breathed slowly until he felt his body calm down. 

"But yeah, that was - amazing." 

Sherlock turned on his side so that he and John were facing each other. "What happens now?"

"Now we just lie here."

"Oh."

They lay in silence for a while, John resting his hand on Sherlock's chest. But Sherlock still felt restless. 

"What time is it?" He asked

"Around 2 o'clock. Why, are you bored?" John teased.

"I can't just lie down. I need something to do constantly."

"Gosh, Sherlock, you're so romantic."

"If we hurry you can have lunch." Sherlock said, and John's face lifted.

"You too, obviously."

"Obviously." Sherlock gathered up his clothes from the floor, then looked down at himself and grimaced. "I need a shower."

"Hold on." John cast a simple cleaning spell at them both and the bed, so that no traces of what they had been doing could be found. "There. Magic solves everything."

After they had both put their clothes back on and Sherlock had double checked that in the removal of his trousers he hadn't broken the charm necklace for his client, they were about to leave the room when John turned to Sherlock and smoothed down his hair.

"It was all disheveled. Someone would know we were skiving off on a case."

Sherlock ruffled his hair. "I always look dishevelled anyway."

"I know. It's distracting. I sometimes had to restrain myself from flinging myself at you and snogging you senseless, right in front of everyone."

"I wouldn't have minded." 

As they walked out of the Room of Requirement to a luckily empty corridor, Sherlock saw John smile out of the corner of his eye. "Maybe that's something I'd have to test someday."

Sherlock felt his face turn red.

~

"Very good, Alissia. Very interesting."

It was pitch black in the forest, save for the lights coming from Moriarty's and Moran's wands, which now seemed higher up from her point of view. She had shrunken, and she could feel her abdomen pressed against the floor. 

She tried to open her mouth to speak, only for silence to come out. 

"We'll make a fine animagus out of you yet, Alissia. With a bit of practice, your transformations will come as naturally to you as your normal wand magic."

Alissia willed herself to turn back to normal, and after a few seconds of waiting, she returned to her normal height. "I transformed fully? Into a spider?"

"Yes. And a very pretty one at that. I do believe it's a black widow."

Alissia nodded in understanding. "Good."

"Your training is nearly over. Soon, we will be completely ready. It's only a matter of time."

"We still have to wait until the next round of the tournament?" Alissia asked, failing to hide the impatience in her voice.

"Patience, dear." Moriarty placed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. She resisted the urge to move away, to flinch. "All good things come to those who wait."


	17. Chapter 17

The exams came quicker than John was prepared for.

At first John and Sherlock were relaxed – revising together for only an hour every day, and even that was spent procrastinating most of the time, by sudden random discussions over irrelevant topics, or frequent snogging sessions behind shelves of books. They would mainly focus working on John’s next task. “It’s an obstacle course, of sorts, I’m guessing,” Sherlock had explained. “Last time it was a maze. I expect it will be a maze again. There’s only so many exciting magical ways of making an obstacle course."

“Maybe they should just make it a normal muggle one.” John had replied. “With hula hoops and egg and spoon races and crawling under parachutes. Like in primary school.”

Sherlock had dismissed John’s idea with a roll of his eyes, saying how he never went to a muggle primary school. “My father tutored me at home, with reading and writing and maths. Mother helped me with magic and deductions and the more useful stuff, when she wasn’t at work.”

John knew that Sherlock’s mother had an important job at the ministry, one that had earned the Holmes’ lots of money. But whenever he asked about it Sherlock shrugged and gave a vague answer. “She says it’s a minor position, but in essence she is the Ministry of Magic. She has access to all files, all information. People go to her for help. She’s a polymath.” After a few years of asking, John gave up.

So they would go into the Room of Requirement and prepare for it: spells that help you keep a sense of direction, jinxes and charms for duels or ‘pest control’- as Sherlock predicted the maze would be full of scattered beasts and animals - and riddle and problem solving. Anything Sherlock expected to come up. John went along with it. 

The Room of Requirement that appeared to them for their tournament preparation was different to the one that appeared for them the first time they found it, as their use of it was intended to be different than before. Not all of it had changed. There were still piles and piles of old clutter dating back centuries, and a couple of old beds. Sherlock predicted that over the years, and especially during the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, the room had lost some of its magic and ability to transform itself entirely to the person’s individual needs. However, there was more floor space which they used for duel practicing, and bookshelves with information on offensive and defensive spells and different mystical creatures, which they would read together. 

Well, that’s what they tried to do. Sometimes it did work and John would leave the room feeling productive and confident in his chances of actually winning the triwizard tournament. But since their first time in the Room of Requirement, since first time, per se, John felt that he had completely lost the ability to concentrate on anything, before flashbacks of Sherlock's mouth on his throat, Sherlock moaning and writhing under his touch and of being brought to orgasm twice by Sherlock's hand would come flooding back in a downward rush of blood. Thank Merlin for the cloaked school uniform.

In lessons where Sherlock wasn't there, or sat near him, these memories could be kept under control, and he could focus on the dull drone of Professor Binns' voice recounting yet another goblin war, or correctly cutting up snargluff roots. But in potions, if Sherlock would lean over to grab a utensil and John could breathe in the scent of Sherlock's shampoo, or in defence against the dark arts if Sherlock was twirling a quill between those long, talented fingers of his, or buying his lower lip in concentration, John would be sent back to the old bed in the Room of Requirement, blanketed in Sherlock's body heat, and it would be all he could do to not palm himself through his uniform to provide some relief.

Apparently Sherlock had the same problem. There were days when John would leave his classroom and head for the Great Hall for lunch, or to the lake or the forest to see Sherlock, and Sherlock would meet him halfway there and drag him by his wrist to the room of requirement, wordless, and the door would barely close before Sherlock had him pressed against the wall and already set to work on the buttons of John's shirt while he kissed him desperately, his erection pressed into John's thigh. 

"This is all your fault, John Watson," Sherlock growled more than once into his ear, and John responded with a moan and a grin. "Have you any idea what it's been like for me, the past few hours?"

John would nod and drag him by his collar to the nearest bed, making most of the free time they had been given before the next lesson.

All these emotions and overactive memories were heightened from being alone with Sherlock in the very room it all took place with. Soon bringing condoms with him for tournament training sessions became as second nature as bringing a wand and a book. Unfortunately, the latter two weren't used nearly as much as John would intend. And the two of them came out of the room looking dishevelled so often that Greg stopped making snide remarks, and joined Mycroft in silent observation and normal. The jokes got tired after the first five times.

Then May came, and the pressure from teachers increased. They set up revision groups in houses, and gave students their own individual revision timetables so that the time John and Sherlock could spend alone decreased. The amount of schoolwork and essays grew, and soon his and Sherlock's time together was limited to actual studying and meals together, with walks around the lake to clear their heads. 

The first exam came on the 31st of May: charms. John and Sherlock sat at opposite ends of the hall, with the other hundred students in their year in alphabetical order for an hour and a half, the clock ticking painfully ahead of them. He sat and stared at the paper; it was 10 questions long, the last three meant to earn a large percentage of the paper by writing long paragraphs explaining the effects of certain spells and the actual origins of the names (Latin. Always some form of Latin) and who invented the spell. The others were just naming spells and stating their affects simply. After the first four questions, John looked over at Sherlock, who was sat in front of Molly, and tried to make eye contact with him, for the sake of something to do (not wise, in retrospect. Not enough time.) But Sherlock was busy scribbling down with such ferocity that he didn't look up from the page, like he was running out of time. John actually checked the great clock at the front of the hall to make sure that there was enough time for him to finish. 

By the time the exam ended, John's wrist was cramping painfully and ink was stained into the side of his hand. The page, slightly smudged from his writing hand skimming the surface as he wrote (the woes of being left handed), was completely filled with in depth explanations and descriptions and repetitions of useless information. John was fairly confident he had at least gained an A, maybe an E if his examiner was being kind. The clock chimed, and students immediately left their seats in silence, until they entered the hall and the full murmur of nervous chatting could be heard in the distance. 

John was one of the last students out. When he got out, most of the students had spread outside to wander about with their friends. Sherlock was stood by the wall next to the door, leaning non-chalantly and relaxed as he waited for John.

"You look calm." John observed. Sherlock shrugged.

"It was an easy exam. Was finished within an hour."

"Lucky you. We can't all have mind palaces or whatever and never forget a single detail by accident." John stood beside him. 

"Thank god. How else would I win you over without my extraordinarily abnormal intelligence? Now shut up and kiss me."

John complied, pressing him gently against the wall. The kiss was soft and slow, relieving him of post-exam stress. He broke apart from him smiling. "What was that for?"

"I missed you." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "It feels like ages since we were last alone together."

"You saw me yesterday." John exclaimed, his smile growing.

"To revise. That's different. I want to be properly alone again, you know." Sherlock stroked John's cheek with his finger thoughtfully. "Exam stress-free. Able to talk about whatever we want. Kiss you for as long as I want without you interrupting to test me on the names of the members of the first Order of the Phoenix. Just us."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, we still have - ah - the next two weeks ahead of us," John shivered as Sherlock moved his attention to his neck, kissing and biting at it gently. "Loads more practicals and exams to work for." 

"Consider this as - an incentive. A reward for working so hard for the exam. Just the once, then we can go back to your dull revision sessions. For me. Please?" 

"Don't know what you need rewarding. You could do the bloody exam with your eyes closed." John muttered. He arched his neck as Sherlock kissed at John's ears and jawline. 

"For you, then. You've missed me too, missed this. I saw you staring at me in the exam." Sherlock moved away from John's face and looked him in the eyes. His eyes were already darkened. 

"I didn't think I was doing it that much." 

"You were, trust me. Now are you coming to the Room with me or not." 

John nodded, and they practically ran down the corridor to the already forming black door. 

After that exam though, there was rarely time for them to be alone. For three weeks they switched constantly between lessons, studying, exams, with breaks only for meals or walking around the grounds for fresh air, to the point that John's libido had died down so that all was left was pure exhaustion. This was until the last examination: potions practical. The class, Professor Slughorn had told them five weeks before hand, had to make Amortentia on their own, rather in pairs as they had normally practiced. John walked into this exam with more nerves than usual, his stomach tucking and turning in its cage. Because, as his head of year had reminded him last year in one-to-one career discussions last year, potions was the most important subject a healer can be knowledgable in, and this was the one topic that the senior staff at St Percival's Healer School would pay attention to the most. He gave one last nervous and forlorn look at Sherlock as he made his way over to the other side of the classroom. Sherlock returned it with a small smile and a nod, telling him that he had faith in him, that he'd do fine. John forced a smile back, though his hand still shook obstinately.  
When everyone stood in alphabetical order in silence behind their cauldron, Professor Slughorn gave them the go-ahead, then everyone got to work. 

After half an hour of cutting, dicing, boiling and preparing the ingredients, there was nothing left but to let the potion sit on the fire while stirring and checking the colour regularly. The heat from 45 boiling cauldrons made the unventilated room stifling, to the point where Slughorn gave them permission to take their cloaks and jumpers and ties off and roll their sleeves up. One ravenclaw girl even fainted, and had to be taken out of the room, her practical exam rescheduled. John looked over at Sherlock, and his hair was sticking up and frizzing in the heat, almost creating the same effect as after a session in the Room of Requirement. John looked away and focused his thoughts on the potion.

When the potion turned green, John was allowed to take it off the flame and let it cool, adding extra ingredients as he did with precision. Eventually others followed, and everyone breathed out as the room cooled slightly, though the immediate affect wasn't much help on how much John was sweating. 

After 15 minutes of letting the potion cool, it had gone a dark turquoise and John smiled in relief as he could smell the Amortentia: the smell of burnt out candles, the sea and Sherlock's expensive shampoo. (How ridiculously predictable, John thought to himself. He breathed in the scent in contentment anyway.

Professor Slughorn made his way around the classroom, observing potions, smelling them, then occasionally nodding in satisfaction or shaking his head, disappointed. At Anderson's cauldron he shook his head and Anderson scowled, muttering under his breath when Slughorn left. John discreetly smirked at this. At Sherlock's cauldron the man nodded and congratulated Sherlock on a job well done. John didn't expect any less. Then he went to Molly's cauldron. Potions, John knew, was not Molly's speciality. In fact it was the only lesson which she neither enjoyed or was good at - unlike herbology or charms, which she excelled at. So as Slughorn carefully inspected Molly's potion, and Molly anxiously chewed on her lower lips, glancing at her friend for some form of comfort, John watched intently, nervous for her. When he saw that Molly had passed, by the way she grinned and hugged her friend excitedly, he smiled and let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding.

John was the last one to be graded. By the time the teacher approached John his heart was in his throat and his mouth felt dry and sour. 

Slughorn sniffed the potion tentatively, nodded in approval, then poured it into a glass transparent vial to check the colour. It was dark turquoise, the colour that was stated in the book to be correct, so Slughorn seemed satisfied with that as well. He stirred the potion in the cauldron, testing its texture (thin, watery) and smiled.

"Congratulations, Mr Watson. It's perfect!"

"Really?" John couldn't help his surprise, even though he knew for a fact that he had memorised and followed every instruction word-for-word. 

"Absolutely." Slughorn wrote something down on his notepad, then moved to the front of the classroom to address the class. John looked over at Sherlock, to find he was staring at him and grinning. John matched his expression. "Well, class, the majority of you did very well indeed. I have very high hopes for your NEWTS next year. Your grades will be sent to you at breakfast on Friday. You are dismissed." 

John hurried out of the classroom as quickly as everyone else, buzzing with excitement. He met Sherlock in the hall and grinned ecstatically. 

"It's over." He sighed. "All the exams are over."

"Thank Merlin. How do you think you did? I saw, I got an E."

"I don't know, but Slughorn told me the potion was perfect, so maybe an O? I don't know. Honestly I'm just so relieved it's over."

"Now you only have the tournament to worry about." Sherlock pointed out.

"'Only'" John forced out a laugh. "Honestly, I just want to forget all about everything. Just relax. Want a butterbeer at Hogsmeade?" 

"No. Too many people." 

"Oh?" John winded his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, stroking the nape of his neck. "Somewhere more private then?" To his delight, Sherlock smiled in agreement.

"It's been over two weeks since we last had any kind of privacy. Yes, I would like that." 

"Good." John planted a kiss on Sherlock's lips, a promise. "Let's go, then." 

They didn't leave the Room of Requirement for the next three hours.


	18. Chapter 18

And the spell against Boggarts is?”

“Ridikkulus. Honestly, John, that’s third year stuff, you should know this.”

“I know. It’s a bit...ridikkulus.” John smiled proudly at his own pun, despite how completely and utterly terrified he felt now that the third and final round of the Tournament was here. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John pretended not to notice the unwanted smile that crept onto Sherlock’s face. John turned to Greg behind him, seeking validation for his lame joke. He shrugged. “Too predictable.” Molly nodded in agreement. Mycroft’s face remind calm, his lips pursed in constant thought. 

They were in the east chamber of the Great Hall, along with the other Champions and their friends and families. John’s own family would have been there, he was sure of it, had it not been for the anti-muggle protection charms all over Hogwarts’ grounds. So instead he was there with Sherlock, Molly, Greg and Mycroft to compensate. When John glanced around the room, he saw Janine was gabbling excitedly at Mary and an older man and woman whom John assumed were her parents. Moran, meanwhile had no one with him except his head teacher. The Durmstrang Head was talking in a serious, hushed voice while Moran nodded along. 

“Really, John? Puns?” Sherlock said, shaking his head.

“What can I say, my sense of humour is endless, even in times of extreme stress. Like right now.” John’s face returned to its original pale complexion and he pursed his lips nervously. “I do know the spell, though. I just – want to make sure I don’t forget.” 

“You won’t forget. You’ve spent the last month constantly practicing with Sherlock and us.” Molly pointed out. “Besides, if you can remember the content for twenty different exams and practicals, getting all Es and Os, then you can remember stuff for the tournament.”

“That’s the problem.” John huffed. “I’ve probably replaced everything in my head for the tournament with school stuff, and vice versa. I’ll probably end up reciting the different ingredients for polyjuice potion when asked to answer a riddle, or something like that.”

“Look on the bright side, you’ve made it this far without dying, and you’re doing pretty well in terms of points. Well, you're last, but still..." Greg said lightly.

“Cheers, mate.” 

“Well, it’s not as if it’s the end of the world if you don’t win.” Sherlock said. “Unless your pride really is that fragile...”

“If the second task was anything to go by, any pride or dignity John may have had probably disappeared. No offence, of course.” Mycroft spoke. 

“None taken.” Of course, the second task had given him Sherlock, something he had wanted for longer than he could pinpoint, but there were still times when his mind would wander and suddenly recall the dead greyness of the Milverssen’s eyes, its blunt sadistic hissing as it revealed to a crowd of thousands something he could scarcely confess to himself, the looks he got from everyone and he would cringe inwardly, thanking whichever deity or ancient celestial being that was watching over him for giving him Sherlock in return. Otherwise, John was sure he would never be able to face another person again.

After ten minutes of talking – mainly Molly comforting him, Greg making quips and Sherlock and Mycroft rolling their eyes at said quips – McGonagall came into the chamber to announce that it was time for family and friends to make their way over to the quidditch field. 

“Well, good luck, John. Try not to, y’know, get lost or anything.” Greg clapped him on the back light-heartedly.

“I’ll try.” John said. Molly hugged him, then Mycroft nodded curtly at him. Sherlock hugged him.

“Promise you’ll stay safe.” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear.

“’course I will,” John said back in surprise. “What’s the worse that can happen.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock pulled away from John, “but since the last tournament in 1994 no one has really trusted it in Hogwarts’ hands. And frankly, neither do I.”

“I’ll be fine, okay?” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead gently. “I’ve been studying hard, and I know what I’m doing. Sort of.”

“Good.” 

They heard Mcgonagall clear her throat behind her, a signal for Sherlock to leave. Sherlock sighed and gave John one last kiss before leaving. “See you on the other side of the maze, I guess.” John called as Sherlock passed through the doorway. He smiled and nodded in response. 

Mcgonagall led the champions and their headteachers to a space under the bleachers in the quidditch field. the July evening air was cool and breezed, though his Champion uniform protected him somewhat against the cold air that was expected of Scotland, even in the summer. The crowds were cheering and talking excitedly as they waited for the champions to arrive, the sound almost deafening. John peeked through the gap in the yellow canvas and saw a glimpse of the huge maze standing in the quidditch fields. It was tall, tall enough that John couldn't even see the top of it, and lit up by lamps, giving it an ominous shadow. From where he was standing, the maze looked empty, almost completely abandoned, but he knew that it would be filled with mystical creatures and sentient plants, designed to test his strength and wit. Not to mention the constant dead ends, the twists and turns that would come at every corner, taking him further and further away from the prize, from ending this damned tournament. John's heart leaped into his throat.

"Now when I say so," McGonagall's firm voice pulled him back down to earth and distracted him momentarily from his thoughts, "You walk out with your respective headteachers to the maze. You smile, you wave at your classmates. Then, your time will start and you will walk into the maze. As Mister Moran is in first position, he will enter the maze first. Then thirty seconds later, Miss Hawkins enters, then thirty seconds later, John enters. Moran, you will enter by the east entrance, Hawkins, the north, and Watson, the west. The triwizard cup is in the centre of the maze. The first one to reach it, will instantly be transported back to the entrance to the maze and be crowned the winner. And don't worry, we have taken extra precaution to make sure it does, in fact, go to the entrance.  
"If you are in danger, or you encounter a fellow champion in danger, shoot red sparks with your wand. Members of staff will find your location and transport you immediately out of the maze, but you will not be allowed to re-enter. Do I make myself clear?"

John felt himself nodding. 

"Good. You may go now."

Moran and Karlssen exited out first, Professor Karlssen holding up Moran's hand in victory and yelling, Moran stoic and expressionless albeit smirking calmly and minutely, to which Mcgonagall tutted and sighed "why I even bother..."  
Janine followed soon after with Madam Maxine. She flashed excited grins at the crowd and waved excitedly whenever she caught sight of a friend.   
John came out last with Professor Mcgonagall's hand rested on his shoulder as they walked out. He could see the Hogwarts' students cheering loudly and he waved back self-consciously. His smile broadened nevertheless when he caught sight of Molly, Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock sitting at the front of the audience. He came to a standstill next to the other champions, then Mcgonagall stood at the front on a pedestal to address the audience. 

"Students, teachers and parents," Mcgonagall began. "Tonight comes the third and final round of this year's tri wizard tournament. For which, our champions must go through this maze to the centre, where the triwizard cup lies. The first champion to reach it within the hour is the winner.

"As Sebastian Moran is in first place with 51 points," Mcgonagall paused as the Durmstrang audience cheered, "he will have a thirty second advantage and enter the maze upon the first whistle. Janine Hawkins," the Beuxbatons whooped, "will enter next, as she has 50 points. Then John Watson, with 47 points, will follow on the last whistle. 

"Good luck to each of the champions. Let this round of the tournament begin." Mcgonagall blew the first whistle.

John watched Moran enter the maze through the entrance on his right, utterly calm and showing no sign of nerves. Bastard.

Janine entered on the second whistle, her right hand clenched into a fist and shaking. She turned back and looked apprehensively at the audience, then turned to John. He nodded and gave a small, encouraging smile before the entrance closed off, leaving John alone in front of his entrance. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, Watson." He heard Mcgonagall say. He turned to look up at her.

"Thank you, Professor."

She blew the whistle and he took a deep breath, before entering through the maze. He didn't stop to look back at the narrowing entrance. He couldn't afford to waste precious time.

The maze was lit up well enough that he could see about ten feet in front of him, but there was fog ominously circling his feet and blocking his vision beyond a particular point. He got his wand out as he walked, first muttering "lumos", then saying "point me," the spell Molly had taught him to allow him to find his way around the maze. The wand spun around in his palm before pointing north, to his right. This meant, if he was correct, he would have to head left in order to get to the centre of the maze.

He briskly walked straight on for a few minutes, feeling his forehead moisten with sweat as the rising temperature clung to his skin. He was surrounded by the stench of damp vegetation and the air thickened, so his breathing grew heavier. The walls of the maze loomed threateningly over him and the cheers of the crowd were lost. He wondered if the audience could see him now, wandering through this terrifying, dark maze as he breathed shakily at the towering hedges. He wondered, as he turned left, then left again, if Sherlock could see him, reduced to a sweaty walking lump of claustrophobia, not knowing what monster could be around every corner. 

He approached a junction - the path was divided into three. He muttered "point me" again, and the wand indicated to him to keep heading straight forward. Or did it? John never had a good sense of bearings. Sherlock and Mycroft were probably rolling their eyes if they saw him now, most likely heading in the completely wrong direction. Could they see him? How would they see him? He went with his first instinct anyway, shaking the thoughts out of his head. 

Not thirty seconds in, the air suddenly dropped in temperature and his breath came out in visible puffs. The leaves of the maze were dusted with frost and he felt his stomach droop and his chest tighten. All sense of optimism rushed out of him like a sudden gust of wind. That's when he caught sight of the cloaked, dark figure floating before him. 

He recognised it immediately as a dementor. But his mind was frozen for several seconds as the dementor floated towards him and instantaneously he was paralysed, frozen and helpless and unable to think about what to do. Then he pointed his wand at the creature, shouted "expecto Patronum!" and the dementor flew out of the maze in a flash of white light. John let out a relieved breath then continued walking.

A few minutes into his walk he encountered an Acromantula - just a young one, but still much bigger than John, with eight pitch black eyes and pincers readily poised - which he got rid of very easily with an Arania Eximai. Then for a while there was nothing, except a sudden thickness in the air as he turned left, then right, then came to a dead end, and had to turn back. He soon came to realised that he was completely and utterly lost, as no matter where he turned, the hedges suddenly closed off and he was trapped. He got his wand out and was about to say "point me", only for it to suddenly fly out of his hand. He looked over and there was Moran, holding it in his fingertips, a face of cold, hard stone. John sighed.

"Moran, give it back." He held his hand out expectantly. "It's not funny."

Moran shook his head, slowly.

"Besides, I'm fairly sure it's cheating." 

Moran's straight face slowly creeped into a sly grin. "Fine. I'll valk over to you." He walked briskly forward, too quickly and threatening for John's liking, and John tried to step back only to find the maze wall blocking his escape. Then he noticed the flash of silver in Moran's other hand, glinting against the moonlight.

"What's that - " Then suddenly he felt a stabbing sensation in his stomach and he cried out, bent double. Moran stepped back, his face all seriousness and focussed and John saw the source of the silver flash: a small dagger, now coated in his blood. He pulled his hand back from where the pain was and he the blood seeping quickly from his wound in his side. His knees buckled and he was left half lying, half sitting against the hedge, completely weak and helpless.

The last thing he saw before everything went black was Moran shooting red sparks into the air with John's wand, then him tossing it at the ground in front of John and disapperating in a cloud of black smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRAMA! EXCITEMENT! PLOT! Gasp!


	19. Chapter 19

When Sherlock would recall that day later on, he would not remember how he sat tensely watching the maze, with only distant voices and flashes of spells giving any indication of what was happening.   
He would not remember complaining that the school's pedantic traditions wouldn't allow for a camera system so they could actually see what was saying, and his friends agreeing.  
All he would remember is the red sparks shooting upwards from the east side of the maze, halfway between the edge of the centre, and praying that it wasn't for John and that if it was, it would just be something trivial. A broken bone, perhaps. 

Sherlock watched anxiously as McGonagall, Karlssen and Maxine disapparated into the maze, to where the sparks came from. He and the rest of the audience were on the edge of their seats, as though leaning further in would give them an advantage in seeing into the colossal maze. 

Then Karlssen returned, carrying John in his arms, his robes soaked in blood and Sherlock's stomach turned.

He ran out of his seat and down the stairs to the stretcher John was being placed in, pushing past whoever had tried to stop him. He heard himself gasping out John's name as he knelt on the ground next to him, hoping those closed eyes would open and give some sign, any sign, that the blood staining Karlssen and the stretcher, was unneeded, unlethal. John's eyes - those beautiful, dark blue eyes that Sherlock swore held entire galaxies - were closed, and Sherlock felt panic rise in his throat. He grabbed John's wrist and felt for a pulse, squeezing slightly too hard and sobbed out a sigh of relief when he found one, though it was too soft and too fast for it to be a complete source of comfort.

"You're okay." He whispered. "John. You're going to be fine." He didn't get a response. Not even a twitch of the finger.

"Holmes, we're going to need you to move." He heard a voice say. Slughorn? Flitwick? He couldn't tell. He reluctantly moved anyway, allowing his fingers to brush against John's wrist with a sense of finality (John's not dead, you idiot, stop it) before standing up. The stretcher floated upwards and was magically carried into the castle, teachers and healers by its side. The audience was watching, students and the few parents leaning out of their seats to look at the source of the drama, and Sherlock wanted to scream at them. John was not a spectacle, a display for people's attention. Couldn't they see how disrespectful that was? John was hurt. John could be...

Before Sherlock could finish that trail of thought, he heard Mycroft say his name behind him. He was standing behind him and Sherlock turned around to see that his face was contorted into something resembling worry. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, steadying himself. 

"He was stabbed." He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, not letting Mycroft see whatever his face may betray. "In the abdomen. The side. There was a lot of blood and he was unconscious. I don't know how deep the wound is, how big the knife was. I couldn't see."

"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was soft, nothing more than a gush of air.

"He'll be okay, though? I know that muggle stabbing victims have a 40% chance survival, with proper treatment, and that will be greater for wizards, right? More advanced potions, spells and stuff." He was babbling, he realised, but he couldn't stop. "And it was only his side so it probably didn't damage any vital organs. Depending on how big the knife was. I couldn't tell - "

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "Come inside."

"Why?"

"People are staring at you, and I'd rather they didn't." 

With a hand on his back, Mycroft swiftly led him past the staring crowds into the castle. When they reached a far enough point in a corridor, Mycroft faced Sherlock, his hands placed on his shoulders, an expression of completely undivided focus, though it hid something Sherlock couldn't place. Softness. Sentiment.

"Listen to me, Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly, albeit quietly, "I can't promise you everything will be okay. I can't promise John will - look. I want you to tell me that whatever happens you won't do anything stupid, like retreating away from your friends and family, stop focussing on schoolwork or your career. Most importantly, do not hunt down whoever did this. The person who did this is dangerous, and will not hesitate to hurt you." 

"Who did this, Mycroft? Why?" Sherlock's vision went blurry, and he wiped away the impending moisture from his eyes. Not here, not in front of Mycroft. "Why John?"

"The authorities will do everything they can to find them. Trust me." He lowered his hands to Sherlock's forearms. "For now, Sherlock, stay in your dorm. I expect everyone else has been sent to theirs, now."

"What about John?" Sherlock's voice cracked. Mycroft breathed through his nose and shook his head.

"He will currently be treated in the infirmary, given the necessary treatments before being put under, into a comatose state in order to assure quick treatment, I suspect. But we don't know anything about the knife. If it was laced with dark magic or not. That would affect it considerably."

"Depending on whether the person intended to actually kill John or not," Sherlock muttered. Mycroft's eyebrows creased into a frown. 

"Don't get involved, Sherlock." 

"I'm not." Sherlock snapped back. He surprised himself with how loud and sudden it was.

"Of course not. I'll be happy to walk you back to your dorm." 

"I know my way." 

"It wasn't a suggestion." 

Sherlock huffed and scowled, but kept silent as they walked back, Mycroft by his side. Mycroft didn't speak either. Not that there was anything left to say. No "I'm sorry about your best friend and boyfriend getting stabbed" or "I'm sure everything will be okay." John was still alive, but Mycroft himself said he couldn't assure Sherlock of anything. 

Mycroft ended up answering the riddle to the dorm for Sherlock before he could, without him asking. Perhaps it was for the best. Sherlock's head was whirring, spinning full of information and thoughts and flashes of everything that happened - a chaotic plethora of emotions. He couldn't hear the riddle, let alone understand it. He couldn't identify if he was numb, a brick wall to the world around him, or too acutely aware of everything around 

Mycroft came to a standstill in the Ravenclaw common room. "Will you be alright, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock nodded slowly. 

"Alone?"

"I have my housemates. They're there."

"That's not what I meant." 

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft's face then shook his head firmly. "I'll be fine. I'll stay here. Like you told me." 

"Do you want me to get a Sleeping Draught for you?" 

Sherlock made a noise halfway between a bark of laughter and a sob. "Like that would make a difference. But...thank you." 

Mycroft nodded then turned to leave. "Good night, Sherlock." 

Sherlock retreated up to his dorm, and he found all the other boys in the dorm staring at him wide-eyed - like they expected him to suddenly lash out or burst into tears like some Austen heroine. Some were sat on each other's beds talking in groups. Others were already prepared to go to sleep. Sherlock ignored them as he grabbed his clothes and took them into the bathroom to change, his head held steadily up, though his teeth were gritted so hard his jaw hurt. 

He changed in the bathroom, as he always did, with haste. John would want him to carry on like normal. And Mycroft. Besides, the other boys were watching. And he could get all his thinking done in pyjamas. 

Before stepping outside, though, he placed a finger on his abdomen through his shirt, where John was stabbed, and tried to name the blood vessels or organs that could have been injured. No major blood vessels. Colon? Intestine? Nerve damage? Possibly. But as far as Sherlock could tell, the wound was not meant to fatally harm. At least in terms of where the wound was. There were so many other possibilities that could cause some kind of fatal injury. A knife laced with dark magic. Something gone wrong with the treatment. 

The urge to go and visit John became irrepressible, but there was no way he'd be able to sneak out without getting caught. 

He came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth then lay flat on his back on his bed, his fingertips steepled under his chin, eyes closed, in thought. Most of the boys were sleeping now anyway, the room completely dark. 

Mycroft told him not to get involved. To hell with Mycroft.

He entered his mind palace immediately, to the room where short-term memories were stored. It was the potions room, without the benches and shelves of bottles and vials replaced with drawers and files. In the middle of the room was John, lying on a stretcher covered in blood. Sherlock choked down a whimper as he approached the body. It was just like how he remembered it, merely a few minutes ago. He felt John's pulse point on his wrist and again, it was weak and fast. 

"He lost a lot of blood because of this." Standing next to the body was Molly, in her Hufflepuff robes, her hair tied back and focused. "But it didn't damage any major arteries. Or organs." 

"What if it did though?" Sherlock said quietly. 

"You're a smart person, Sherlock." Mind-palace-Molly assured him. "You know about human anatomy better than most your age. With the exception of John, of course."

"Of course." Sherlock echoed. His fingers drifted to the wound at John's side, lifting the hem of John's shirt to expose it: one inch wide. A thin blade. 

"Would it have caused much pain?" Sherlock asked to the room. 

"It's a stab wound, Sherlock. Of course it bloody did." Lestrade was here now. "The question is, was that the intention?" 

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. "I don't know the motive. Who would want to hurt John? He had no enemies." 

"Didn't he?" Lestrade asked. "He's a nice guy, and all, but someone must have had reason to hurt him."

"Mary was angry with him. With you," Molly filled in. "Maybe it has something to do with her..." 

"Stabbing? I doubt it." Sherlock snapped back. "Not over a lost boyfriend from months ago. Besides, how would she have gotten into the maze? She was in the audience the entire time." 

"What about Janine?" Lestrade suggested. "She was in the maze, and she's Mary's best friend."

"Janine is really not the type. Besides, she likes me and John. She wouldn't do...this." Sherlock stared back down at John. No changes, except his chest had started rising and falling ever so slightly. Despite this all being in Sherlock's mind, he was comforted by this.

"Caring, Sherlock," a sing-song voice sighed, Mycroft in the room now. A reminder. "You need to focus. Besides, the knife went quite deep into him, did it not?"

"Yes." Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Which suggests?"

"Determination? Strength?"

"So statistically..."

"It would most likely be a man."

"Or a strong woman," Molly pointed out.

"Look at it this way, Sherlock. Who, in the maze at the time, has a large amount of upper-arm strength?"

"Moran," Sherlock replied. "But what motive would he have? He was the one most likely to win, judging by his performance in previous tournaments, and he and John have never come to any disagreements." Sherlock suddenly felt a sick sense of deja vu.

"Hate crime, perhaps?" Lestrade supplied. "John being an openly bisexual muggle-born and all that."

"Too well planned to be a hate crime," Sherlock answered. 

Molly frowned at him in thought. "You're missing something. You can feel it, can't you?"

"A stabbing by an unknown person or persons, with seemingly no motive or link between victims..."

"Victims?" Sherlock emphasised the use of a plural, questioning Mycroft.

"Because hasn't this all happened before? Don't you remember?"

In a rush of breath, Sherlock whispered "of course," and suddenly he was transported to a squared off bit of field, surrounded by yellow tape and forensics and police. He knew instantly he was in Sussex, as in the centre John's body was replaced by a woman's. He recognised her from the front page of a newspaper he read over the summer. Dead. "The stabbing victims." 

"Maria Morton, the first victim. 20 miles away from your home." Lestrade identified her. Sherlock turned around and another body appeared, male this time. 

"Louis Carter, the second victim. 16 miles." Molly supplied.

The third. "Alana Yousef. 14 miles."

The fourth. "James Jefferson. 8 miles." 

The fifth. "Alex Laurens. 3 miles." 

"My second cousin." Sherlock added in a murmer . "The murderer was slowly making his way towards...me." 

"And now he got John," Lestrade told Sherlock. "It wasn't the same person commuting the murders, but it was the same person pulling the strings."

"Trying to get my attention." Sherlock turned around and instantly John was standing in front of him, his eyes wide and worried, dressed in his trademark jumper and jeans. He looked...scared. Concerned. Sherlock felt his eyes fill with moisture. "I'm so sorry, John." 

John shook his head. "Nothing can be done, Sherlock. I'm alive, I suppose." John forced a small smile, an attempt at comfort. "You solved it though. That should help, right?"

"Hardly. I don't know who did it. Why they want to get to me. What they'll do next..."

"Sssh," John placed an assuring hand on Sherlock's cheek, and he leaned into the touch. "You need to give yourself more credit."

"You're not safe." 

"Neither are you, really."

"What do you suggest - I sit back and just let everything happen? Wait for the killer to reveal himself?"

"Well, I am just a physical representation of what you're thinking, so if you think so..."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Fine. As you wish." 

"Good." John stood on the tips of his toes and kissed Sherlock's forehead - as warm and heavy as the real thing. "Find him. Or her. Them. Whoever is doing this. He won't hesitate to do it again."

Sherlock considered this for a while, forehead creased in thought. "Actually, I'm not so sure of that."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his fingers to his lips and said in a whisper. "The killer is trying to get my attention. He can't get much closer to me than through you." 

He opened his eyes with a start, and came to realise he was back in his common room, lying on his bed, flat on his back, the room dark and silent, albeit the gentle snoring of boys next to him and Sherlock's heavy breathing. He looked over at the clock next to him: 11 pm. 

He took a shuddered breath and rested his hands on his stomach. He went over in his head everything he had realised, multiple times, before closing his eyes and attempting sleep. 

Moran is the most probable person to have stabbed John.

"He was working for someone who wants my attention. 

"That person is dangerous, and wants to be found, so I must find him

"For John."


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a sharp intake of breath, sitting straight up and blinking back the flashes of image that had appeared throughout the night, weaving into his dreams, taunting him in the darkness. It was always the same; always John, bleeding out onto Sherlock as he lay beside him and watched helplessly. 

He wiped his eyes dry of moisture threatening to make himself known, then looked around the room. The familiarity of the Ravenclaw dorm room was somewhat a reassurance 

The rest of the boys in the dorm were either getting ready or out, having breakfast. Sherlock got out of bed and got dressed. He felt the other boys' eyes on him as he walked to the bathroom, shirt and trousers in hand. He realised that people would do that a lot today. Follow his every move, eyes full of pity. Awkwardly ask questions about his well-being, as though he were the one who had a knife stuck through his abdomen and was left to bleed out in the maze. Sherlock decided to avoid as much of that as possible. 

As soon as he was ready, he headed straight for the infirmary, making a beeline against the current of students heading for the Great Hall and dashing through corridors. On his way people tried to stop him, tell him to go to breakfast, ask him how he was doing. One of those people was probably Molly. He couldn't tell. He had kept his eyes focused on the middle distance, in thought, his mind completely overwhelmed by the thought of seeing John for the first time after he was - after last night.

John was in the nearest bed to the door. Sherlock didn't hesitate to enter the infirmary and rush to John's side. He was pale (blood loss), and his eyes were closed shut, having been put into a comatose state to speed up recovery. His chest rose and fell slowly, and for every space in which there was no movement, between breaths, Sherlock's chest clenched in worry. There were no IV lines, no machines to keep track of John's vitals. The wizarding world considered themselves above this. Sherlock pulled up a seat close to the bed and sat down in it. He grabbed John's left hand - his dominant one - and stroked it with his thumb. It was warm, full of life, and for a moment Sherlock could imagine that John was just sleeping next to him, that they were in the Room of Requirement and they had nothing to worry about, that it was just the two of them together. 

"He came out of surgery at 11," Madam Pomfrey said as she came into the room. Sherlock pulled his eyes away from John to acknowledge her. "He pulled through, recovered well. But it will scar. There wasn't anything we could do." 

"Dark magic?" Sherlock guessed hoarsely. Madam Pomfrey nodded. 

"Terrible business, this is. But I'm sure it will all work out in the end. It always does around here." Sherlock was sure that last bit wasn't so much addressed at him as herself, but he nodded along anyway. 

"When will he wake up?" His voice was shaking, vulnerable. He cursed his transport for being so traitorous.

"Hopefully, by this evening. But realistically, probably not until tomorrow morning."

Sherlock nodded and circled his thumb over the back of John's hand, reassuringly. "He'll pull through." 

The nurse made a soft hum, a noise of sad sympathy and patted Sherlock's shoulder assuringly. "I'm sure he will." 

After a few minutes of Sherlock sitting in silence by John's bed, relishing in every pulse beat he could feel on John's wrist and tracing illegible patterns on the back of his hand, Molly and Greg entered the hospital wing. Sherlock didn't look up, but he heard Molly's gentle gasp of sadness when she saw John, and Greg's muttered profanity.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked. 

"Pretty good, considering he had a hole ripped through his abdomen," Sherlock replied drily, glaring at Lestrade.

"He's serious, Sherlock. Is he going to pull through?" Molly asked. The two of them stood at the opposite side of the bed. 

"Yes. He'll wake up tonight. Hopefully. Maybe. I don't - " Sherlock felt his lower lip wobble and bit down on it to prevent it from doing so further. 

"So what happened? Who did it?" 

"I have a - vague idea of the suspect. But there's someone pulling the strings. Someone who wants my attention." Sherlock pulled his hand away from John's and placed it in his lap, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

"How do you know?" Molly chewed on her lower lip anxiously. 

"Last summer there were five stabbing victims around Sussex. The police thought that they were unrelated and the locations were random and, admittedly, so did I at first. But really, they were making their way towards me, with a closer distance between my home and the scene of the crime each time. The last victim was my second cousin." Sherlock felt guilt rise in him like bile.

"Then the killer went for John," Molly filled in. Sherlock nodded silently.

"But it's not the same killer, right? It's a different person doing the act, same person telling them to do it." 

"Yes." Sherlock replied. 

"Merlin," Lestrade breathed. He looked down at John, eyes soft and regretful. 

"But they didn't mean to kill him, the killer. The blade wasn't stabbed in the right place." Sherlock was surprised by how matter-of-factly he sounded, when inside he was cringing painfully with every word. "I don't really know why. I suspect that they're planning something, to use him as leverage still." Sherlock's voice wobbled, "he's still in danger." 

"What are you going to do, Sherlock?" Molly asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing I can do. The events will fold out whatever I do. Whoever did this has planned this. They're clever. They know what they're doing and it will happen no matter what. I'll just have to respond appropriately." 

~

The hours crept pitifully slowly throughout the day. Sherlock was forced to attend lessons, with lips pressed together and meaningless apologies as teachers stopped Sherlock in his tracks from escaping to the infirmary. Or his dorm. Whichever could offer him comfort. 

Lessons were silent and uneventful, indecipherable white noise droning in the distance as Sherlock sat stoically on his stool, never interacting with anyone, doing the bare minimum as he counted down the minutes to the next break. The next time he could see John. 

He was generally ignored for most of the day. Or at least, people attempted to give the illusion that he was being ignored, them averting their eyes politely when Sherlock glared at them. Or rather, when his permanent glare was fired in their direction. 

Then break would come and he would rush from his seat, ignoring the teacher's cries that he had to be dismissed first, to practically run down the halls to the infirmary, where John would be in pretty much the same state as he was in the morning: unconscious, chest rising and falling slowly, but alive. His skin had gained back some colour and he had warmed up, new blood flowing through his veins and Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at how quickly John was recovering. 

At lunch Mycroft visited. He didn't hover like Lestrade and Molly did; he strode in like he owned the room, walking over to Sherlock without a thought to the patient in the bed. Sherlock looked up to Mycroft's face to see it was full of concern, eyes wide and blazing with repressed fear and - sadness? Sherlock frowned, trying to read him.

"You're not here for John, are you," he eventually concluded. 

"Excellent deduction. No, I'm here for you." Mycroft pulled out a letter from his pockets. "An owl delivered this for you just now."

Sherlock eyed the envelope suspiciously, then took it from Mycroft's fingers. He studied both sides suspiciously. On the one side was a red wax seal of a magpie, on the other was distinctly masculine writing of his name in black ink.

"I don't recognise the seal or the writing," Sherlock said honestly.

"Neither do I. But I have my suspicions."

Sherlock dug his finger into the envelope and made a small tear, before pausing and looking up to remind Mycroft, "if I read this, it doesn't count as 'getting involved'."

"Agreed," Mycroft nodded. 

"We both know that whoever has sent this is the person who did this to John, then?"

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied, then with shaking hands tore the envelope and took out the letter inside. It was wizard's parchment paper, slightly crumpled, and written in with an old quill. But all that was written were four simple words: 

Infirmary, midnight. Come alone.

M x

"Well?" Mycroft's voice dragged Sherlock out of his paralysed state. Sherlock blinked, then folded the letter and placed it in his pocket.

"Spam letter, that's all. Offering me twenty thousand galleons to reply with the correct answer to some trivia question. Nothing to worry about." 

Mycroft gave a bark of laughter. "As common as spam letters are nowadays, do you honestly think I'm going to believe that pathetic excuse of a lie?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now please leave me and my boyfriend in peace."

"Sherlock." Mycroft knelt down besides Sherlock's chair. Sherlock hated when he did that - it felt patronising. "They want to meet with you, don't they?"

"Go away, Mycroft."

"Promise me you won't."

"Mycroft - "

"Opening the letter was one thing."

"I know but - "

"Going up to them in person is completely dangerous - " 

"THEY WANT TO MEET IN THE INFIRMARY!" 

Mycroft's mouth opened, then paused, and stood up. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, and averted his eyes to John. "They'll be here. Tonight. With John. There's nothing I can do about it." 

"Sherlock - "

"But if I'm here first," Sherlock continued, voice steady and confident, "I can keep him safe."

A beat.

"We can arrange for him to be moved to Saint Mungo's," Mycroft told Sherlock. "He'll be safe there."

"Not from them. They've planned this. They'll know. John is safer where I can protect him."

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Sherlock, you're seventeen!" Mycroft's voice rose in a crescendo. "You're barely of age, still in school. You can't possibly think that you are remotely capable of protecting another human life!" 

"What would you do if Lestrade was here, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped, rose to his feet, trying his best to compensate for the slight height difference between them. "If Lestrade was in danger, if you were responsible for his life, if you were in my shoes? Would you still be sucking up to the ministry's arse and trust them to protect Lestrade from someone who has so much power? Because they do. They do have power. Over me. Over you. Perhaps even over the ministry." Sherlock's voice had lowered to barely above a whisper, Mycroft's face softening in kind. "That's how they could kill all those people in the summer and go undetected, and know enough about me to exploit my one pressure point. There's nothing we can do to stop they Not now. Not until we meet them face to face. That's our best play." 

Mycroft stared for a second, saddened, scared, then straightened his back and nodded. "Alright. Alright. I trust you."

"I have to be alone. Midnight. Don't follow me. They'll see you."

The corner of Mycroft's lips twitched, a false glimmer of lightness. "Okay. Try and eat today, Sherlock. You need your strength." 

With that, Mycroft left the room, leaving Sherlock, mildly breathless, in his chair. 

He sat and thought for a while, then kissed John's forehead, before leaving the room, headed for the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a belated thank you for everyone still reading this. Just so you know, updates will be starting to get slower. I'm not sure I'll get the next update in before December but I'll try.
> 
> Thanks again!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's going to die.

The castle was asleep. As Sherlock tread carefully down each hallway, the only sounds of life to be heard were the paintings' gentle snoring and the cautious tapping of Sherlock shoes falling against the stone tiles of the castle floors. He held his lit wand out in front of him, his ears twitching with every sound, mentally reassuring himself that if a teacher was to come, he'd excuse it by saying that he was sleep-walking. They couldn't tell him off for that. Not after the trauma of his boyfriend currently being in a coma after being stabbed.   
It wasn't a struggle to leave the dorm at 11:55. The boys were sound asleep, and his feet were silent, even in his leather school shoes. So he opened the door to the common room slowly, being sure cast a muffliato to prevent creeks ringing out. As he left, he had silently thanked Rowena Ravenclaw for not putting a morally obliged painting on the door, that could call for staff and give him away, like the Gryffindors had.

He reached the doors to the infirmary then checked his watch. 11:58. Good timing. He pressed the door with his hand, and as expected, it opened without resistance. If Madam Pomfrey had locked the doors at one point, it certainly wasn't now. He cautiously entered the room, the door groaning excruciatingly as he entered. The room was lighted gloomily with a couple of lamps and the streams of moonlight coming through the large windows. His heart hammering away at his chest, Sherlock put away his wand into his trouser pocket and turned towards John's bed. For reassurance. Except, the bed was empty. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, cursing his own stupidity. What else should he expect from being told that John's attacker would be in the infirmary?  
He walked over to the bed, expecting it to be messy and dishevelled and showing signs of forced removal. How else would a comatose boy not be in his bed? Only, the corner of the quilt was folded neatly and calmly over. John hadn't gotten out in a rush. And he wasn't - at least physically - forced. So how did he get out if he isn't due to wake up until tomorrow..?

"John?" Sherlock whispered out into the room. "John?!"

"Evening." John! The voice was monotone, devoid of emotion, of any sign of the smart, funny compassionate boy Sherlock knew and loved, except in the recognisable timbre of his voice. He wasn't sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief or to carry on panicking. Sherlock turned around to the direction of the voice. Sure enough, out of the shadows, John walked slowly and shakily out, meters away from where Sherlock was standing. He came to a standstill, swaying as he stood, his face blank and unreadable. Even his eyes - the usually traitorous, emotional blue eyes that from a distance seemed so dark - held no clue as to why the hell was John out of bed. 

"John, what the - "

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock." Sherlock approached him, his hand reaching out. He stood still just before he could get close enough to touch John, something restraining the shaking hand that longed to touch. Perhaps it was the way John was standing - erect and formal, yet like a single puff of wind could send him blowing away, like a house of cards. So instead, Sherlock gazed into John's eyes, a confusing cocktail of emotions ranging somewhere between happiness and pure, unadulterated fear. The latter won when Sherlock's clouded judgement faded and realised that John's midnight-blue eyes had become a pale, almost silver, blue, and unblinking.

"Whoever's doing this, stop it!" Sherlock's yells echoed and faded without reply.

"Bet you never saw this coming." 

Sherlock dared to place his hand around John's wrist. His heart was beating, at least, but it was fast and over-exerting. John was not in control.

"What would you like me to make him say next?" There was a pause, like the person controlling John was considering what to do next. They settled on having John say "gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer." Patronising. Humiliating. Yet John remained seemingly indifferent.

From out of the shadows, two figures, male and female. entered the room from the back, their wands out - one pointing at John, the other at Sherlock. Sherlock recognised instantly the male as Sebastian Moran, pointing his wand at John. He couldn't say he was surprised that the secretive Durmstrang was working with a serial killer. But the female, on the other hand... 

"Mary?!" Sherlock's voice was hoarse. He attempted to move towards her, but she pointed her wand out further wordlessly, tilting her head as if to say 'were you really so stupid as to try to talk to me?'

"Mary, talk to me. What's going on? Or can you not talk?" Sherlock gabbled. "That's it isn't it? They're controlling you too."

"She's here of her own accord. And her name is Alissia." John's voice said. 

"Who are you?" Sherlock shouted out. "Come out."

"I owled you, Sherlock." A new sing-song voice joined the room, making Sherlock jump slightly. "I thought you might reply." 

From the back of the hospital wing a man - no more than in his early twenties', barely technically out of his teens, Sherlock estimated - came out, a wickedly white smile planted on his pale face. He was dressed immaculately - muggle suit free of creases or lint, gelled back hair without a stray lock in sight. He was professional, there was no other word for it. A professional what, though, Sherlock couldn't decide.

"Is that a 10-inch holly with unicorn hair core wand in your pocket?" Moriarty tilted his head, slowly smiling. "Or are you just pleased to see me?" 

Stupid. Repulsive. Sherlock took his wand out of his pocket and faced it at the man. "Both."

The man stopped walking. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!" 

Sherlock paused, then breathed, "oh, of course. 'M'."

"Not necessarily." Moriarty looked over at each of the two students. "Rather a coincidence, isn't it? Moran. Morstan. Moriarty. Not that Morstan is her real name. Very complicated business."

"Alissia." Sherlock turned to the female student, seeking confirmation. Mary's - Alissia's eyes shifted at Moriarty, as if confirming his permission for her to reply, then gave a small patronising smile. "You're very slow to catch on."

"You - you're working for him?!"

"Yes," Mary replied with bored disinterest. 

"You put John in that hospital bed. You helped him," Sherlock spat. "So how long? How much are you responsible for?" Sherlock wondered with sickening realisation about her relationship with John. About her mysterious past. How much of her was real?" 

"Oh, of course, it was all real, she only joined me once you two got together." Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "But her past... Well, that's a story for another time."

"You're a legilimens." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. 

"Jealous?" Moriarty pouted mockingly, which quickly switched into a smirk. "That would have come in handy in your line of work. 'Consulting detective'," the man said this with an air of curiosity, more intrigued than the patronising way most responded to Sherlock's ambition. "Very handy. It helps me too, you know. In my line of work."

"What 'line of work' is that exactly?" 

"I'm in the consulting business. Like you!"

"Consulting... serial killer?"

"Christ, no, you think I'm the one doing all the dirty work? All that blood?" The man grimaced. "No. I work...behind the scenes. The director of the play. The author of the novel. Back in the shadows where my Westwood shoes can stay clean and stainless."

"....Consulting criminal." Sherlock settled on that term with a small smile. "People come to you with their problems. You organise the murders to help them. Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" He beamed. "Not just murders though. It's my speciality, of course, but I do a little dabbling elsewhere. Kidnapping. Fraud. But I'm not the only one in the world and certainly not the most powerful. Yet."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand."

Moriarty cackled. "Oh, I forget how young you are! I think we need to talk."

"First let John go," Sherlock said firmly, to which Moriarty chuckled again, a noise which clutched at Sherlock's chest like a vice and made Sherlock pulse race anxiously. "Alright. Fine." He nodded over at Moran, who with a flick of his wand released John of whatever imperius curse was holding him, causing him to collapse onto the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. 

"John!"

"Hush now, my dear. He's only gone back to sleep." Moriarty stepped over John's comatose form over towards Sherlock. He kept eye contact with the man against his will. Moriarty's eyes roamed, looking Sherlock up and down and pinning him firmly to the infirmary's stone floor. "No need to be scared, Sherlock. I admire you, you know."

"You admire me," Sherlock repeated, deadpan.

"So young, yet so intelligent. A mind in a league of my own, almost. I've been trying to get your attention for a while but..." Moriarty sighed. 

"All this has been - for me?"

"Yes."

"The murders? The tournament? John's attack?"

"What, you're not impressed? Seen bigger?"

"People have died."

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty yelled the last word out, and it echoed across the room. He shook his head. "Sorry. We'd make a good team, you and I. It's a shame your moral compass is so...ordinary."

"It's a shame yours is so wayward. The ministry could do with someone such as yours."

Moriarty groaned. "Ugh, Ministry Shministry. As if I'd every consider working for them. I don't want to be tied down, I don't want to take orders. That's why I'm working my way up the hierarchy so quickly."

"What hierarchy?" 

Moriarty's smile was slow moving, like a panther prowling as it creeps up on its prey. "It's a big wide world out there. Bigger than you're aware of. Full of locks and bolts that even your ministry doesn't have the key to."

"And you do?"

"I will do." Again, Sherlock's lungs filled with panic at Moriarty's confidence. "With a little time, a little money, a few allies," Sherlock glanced at the two students pointing their wands at Sherlock, "I will claim my crown."

"You're a wizard. But you work with both muggles and wizards."

"I may be a psychopath but I'm not a bigot. Besides, what's the use of claim to just fifty percent of the throne?" Moriarty quipped. "Both worlds are easy enough to access. To take over. But now, you're in my way. So take this as a small reminder," Moriarty's face fell into a narrow glare, piercing black, "my dear. Back off."

"Or what? Oh, let me guess, you kill me." Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious," Mary and Moran chuckled along with Moriarty. "I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, eventually, but I'm saving that for something special. No. If you don't stop prying Sherlock, I'll burn you," Moriarty actually snarled. "I'll burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock didn't need to look over at who the man was referring to. Attacking John, controlling him, using him to toy with Sherlock's fears and vulnerabilities like a child with their presents at Christmas was proof enough of whom Moriarty was truly threatening. Moriarty shrugged then walked off back towards Moran and Mary. "Anyway, must be off. People to kill. Crimes to organise. Suits to buy." Moran and Mary followed after him. as ducklings to their mother. "Caoi!"

"Catch. You. Later."

Once out of sight behind columns and shadows, Moriarty called back in his sing-song voice, "no you won't!"

A door closed with a thud, and Sherlock ran over to John and knelt beside him.

Checking John's pulse had become all too familiar to him by this point, as had the relief at the steady thrum of life pumping slowly through John's wrist. He was comatose still, now that he no longer had any curses holding him up and opening his eyes.

"You're okay," whispered Sherlock, half to himself, "you're going to be fine." Grunting with the effort, he lifted John up onto his hospital bed and lay him down on his back. As he pulled the quilt over John, the doors burst open and Mycroft walked in, wand held steadily out in front of him. 

"Sherlock?"

"I'm here."

Mycroft exhaled - somewhere between a sigh and a huff - and approached Sherlock. "What do you think you're doing here?" He kept his voice at a harsh whisper

"I could ask you the same question."

"I am clearing up my little brother's mess, as he so stupidly decided to get out of bed in the dead of night to meet a serial killer. What about you?"

"I'm pretending to listen to my big brother's sarcastic complaints." 

"This isn't a complaint, Sherlock, what were you thinking?!" Mycroft hissed. 

"Mycroft, you don't understand! I met him!"

"Oh, of course, how could I be so stupid, that automatically redeems you of breaking school rules."

"Mycroft, listen, this is important - "

"No, you listen Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled. "As your elder brother and Head Boy, I am telling you to go back to bed, and you'll avoid further punishments." 

Sherlock paused. "How did you know I was here?"

"I had a hunch. Besides, portraits are very useful assets when dealing with reckless young students."

"I'm only a year younger than you!"

"Your immaturity would suggest otherwise." Mycroft looked around. "Where's Madam Pomfrey?"

Sherlock paled in realisation. "I don't think Moriarty was particularly forgiving with her." 

"Hello, boys!" Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he felt the blood drain from his face. He turned towards Moriarty, who showed no sign of ever leaving in the first place. "Goodness. Two Holmes brothers for the price of one! Mycroft!" Moriarty smiled. "I have been watching you too. Just a tad."

"The ministry will be here shortly to take you away," Mycroft said calmly, utterly lacking in any signs of fear: the hand holding his wand was still, his voice was steady and low, he stared Moriarty straight in the eye as he then added, "you and your two cronies are under arrest for murders of multiple persons and attempted murder on a student. You can't escape now." 

Moriarty cackled. "How adorable. You were right, Sherlock, by the way. There was no point in sparing a potential witness. Madam Pomfrey, was it?" Before the information could properly sink in, the criminal mastermind then flicked his wand, shooting out a spell wordlessly, which Mycroft barely blocked in time. The man grinned. "Very good! But you can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."

Mycroft responded with a spark of red flying from his wand towards Moriarty. He deflected it effortlessly, then shot white light back at Mycroft. Sherlock felt rooted to the floor, standing in front of John's hospital bed as he lay oblivious to the chaos in the hospital room. Then Mary and Moran joined in, sending a mixture of verbal and non-verbal curses and counter curses to which Mycroft deflected and responded with growing exhaustion, spells barely grazing his skin, a hair short of fatal. At that point Sherlock rushed in and joined Mycroft, jabbing his wand at the air and the room lit up with the brightness of the spells. But all Mycroft and Sherlock's effort was defensive. They were too outnumbered and out-powered to do anything other than escape harm and get out of that damned infirmary alive. Though Sherlock did manage to cast a stupefy curse at Moran, catching him off guard. That one, he was proud of. 

They continued duelling for several minutes, as Sherlock felt himself lagging and becoming more and more breathless, while Mary and Moran continued with effortless, well trained offensives. In fact, Moriarty had completely stopped fighting, allowing his two henchmen (henchpeople?) to do the dirty work for him as he watched, shark-like. 

But Sherlock must have paused. He must have stopped to breathe long enough. Or maybe it was Mycroft, whose eighteen years of sitting eating cauldron cakes was catching up with him and causing his exhaustion. Whatever it was, the two brothers were overpowered, and they found themselves forced onto their knees with their hands bound behind their back, their wands cast to the side on the floor. Moriarty came and knelt in front of Mycroft, his head tilted patronisingly. 

"You're going to be a problem, aren't you?" Sherlock heard him whisper. 

"That would depend on your definition of 'problem'," Mycroft deadpanned. 

"You're due a job at the ministry soon, aren't you? A good one at that. Powerful."

Sherlock's breathing sped up in a panic, just within the boundary of control.

"If you kill him you kill me too," Sherlock said boldly. "It's only logical. I'm a witness. I'm an enemy. Either leave us both be or kill us both." 

Moriarty pursed his lips then replied, his face still not turning away from him, "you fascinate me, Sherlock. Have done for a while now. But your brother here... No." Moriarty got up. "I won't do it."

Sherlock breathed out shakily, and the magic binding his hands together was released. He kept his eyes trained on the floor.

"Alissia, be a dear would you?" 

Sherlock looked up. Alissia turned to look at Mycroft. "Sir?"

"Come now, do I have to be explicit? Do I have to remind you of the vow you made?" Alissia rubbed subconscious at her right wrist, like it pained her. Unbreakable vow. The bastard had made her make an Unbreakable vow. 

"No, sir." 

Then in a flash everything changed.

First came Alissia's voice, a rushed yell barely covering the nervousness of inexperience, spitting out a curse.

Second came a flash of green zooming past Sherlock's ear, too fast for any logical reaction.

Third came Mycroft's body collapsing into the stone tiles of the infirmary, silent and still. 

Fourth came someone's screams. It could have been Sherlock. He couldn't tell. All he could feel was the sense that he was falling, falling, falling into a pit of helplessness.

He crawled over to Mycroft, he heard himself call his name over and over, shaking his shoulders only to be met with nothing. 

He heard people enter the infirmary. Adults. Teachers. Aurors. There were gasps. There were hands pulling him away from Mycroft, and Mycroft's body was levitated out of Sherlock's arms onto a hospital bed. Sherlock was too tired to resist the person dragging him out into the hall, though he kept yelling out his brother's name. 

The adult - a teacher, female, Mcgonagall - sat him down against the wall and - Sherlock guessed - ordered a nearby Auror to watch over him. 

Out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, as he sat slumped against the wall, rasping out breaths and pressing the palms of his hands against his forehead, three spiders exited the castle and made their way out into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legilemens: someone who can read minds. Like Queenie in fantastic beasts  
> The spiders: Moriarty and his henchpeople escape and get into places by their animagus forms being spiders. I thought that would be cool.  
> Mycroft's death: I'm so so so sorry.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack. I'm not sure how realistic it is, as I've never had one myself, or how serious. But there is a panic attack.

John woke up at 12:03 pm two days later than predicted.

The first thing he was aware of was how dry and sore his throat was, like he had been force-fed sand the ntire time he had been unconscious, which was understandable seeing as he hadn't drunk or spoken in nearly a week.

The second thing he noticed was the palpable silence.

He looked at the clock next to him and saw that students would still be in their classrooms, learning whatever the hell John had missed (what had he missed? How long was he in a coma for?). Even so, there was normally a low hum of life that spread from the classrooms through the echoey halls, gossip and laughter and discussions and debates creating a buzz that spread throughout the old castle. But today, the first day John had been present for several days, it was silent, like the castle was thinking, contemplating, mourning. 

The last word that came to John's mind took him by surprise. Would the castle be mourning him? Was he that important? He liked to think that he wasn't a self-absorbed person, but the suggestion still appeared possible. 

Or was his attacker still in the castle, still stalking the halls and striking at his prey? 

Were there other victims for the school to mourn?

Moran.

The boy's (no, not boy - the word implied too much innocence, too much of the status Moran had forfeited in attempting to kill John, if, indeed, his intention was to kill) slammed into his mind's eye, a gut punch that sent John falling back into reality - bathed in cold moonlight, looming, smirking. Was he smirking? Amused by John's suffering and condescending as John fought to stay conscious or call for help? Maybe his face was as emotionless as his heart, focused on the deed, clinical as an Auror doing paperwork or a doctor performing surgery. Or was the face bored, careless as John cried out in pain and blood pooled at the killer's feet? The room around John started spinning, and his breath came in short pants. He tried to breathe slowly, let the oxygen actually get somewhere before it was forced out again by John's panicked exhalations, but he was unable to be calmed. The room blurred and spun. He was trapped lying in the hospital bed, unable to do anything except resignedly think, I can't breathe, I am going to die, I'm going to asphyxiate myself.

At some point there was someone by his side - a man in a St Mungo's uniform, despite John knowing that he was still in the castle - kneeling beside the bed with a warm hand on his shoulder. John vaguely heard words like "with me" and "one, two, three" as he slowly inhaled and exhaled. John copied. Inhaled. Exhaled. After a few minutes, John's breathing rate had slowed, but his heart was still hammering in his chest and when he rubbed at his face he found it to be wet with tears. Or sweat. John turned to the nurse. He was young, with a kindly face shaped into calm concern, as with all medical professionals. 

"How are you feeling?" 

Like shit, John wanted to snap back. Like I've been stabbed. Like I've just had a panic attack, I think. Like I have no idea what is going on and I just really want to see someone, anyone, to show that everything is okay and can return back to the way it was. I want to see Sherlock. I miss him. 

Instead, John simply rasped, "water?" and the nurse nodded and handed him a cup of water. "Gently, now." John obliged and sipped slowly, despite how tempted he was by his thirst to just chug the water.

"Good. You're John Watson, right?" John nodded. "I'm Anthony. I'm a replacement nurse." 

"Where's Madam Pomfrey?"

Anthony's face turned momentarily panicked, unsure how to respond, which John found odd, to say the least, as it was a perfectly simple question. Eventually, the nurse settled on, "she's retired now."

"Really?" John frowned. "In the middle of a school term?"

"Now get some rest, Mister Watson. It will lunchtime soon and I'm sure your friends would want to visit you. You need all the strength you can get. You've been very popular the last couple of days I've been here."

"Oh?" John allowed himself to grin weakly.

"Yeah. Some have even brought gifts."

John sat up slightly, wincing as he did so, and saw a pile of chocolate frogs, every-flavoured beans, pumpkin pasties, and cards with get well soon notes. He smiled. "That's nice of people." 

"Do you want to open some of the cards now? I can't allow you to have all of the sweets yet - you're still in recovery and all that sugar's not going to do you any good. But I'm sure some cardboard and ink won't do you any harm," Anthony winked as he walked over to gather up some of the cards and John's lips twitched, not quite strong enough to laugh yet. 

Anthony piled up five or so cards onto the small desk of drawers beside the hospital bed. "Shout if you need anything," he said, "lunch is soon if you're feeling up to it."

John hummed in acknowledgement, and picked up and read the cards one at a time. The first was Molly, in a card she had made herself decorated with moving pictures of broomsticks and snitches, with the usual "get well soon!" and two kisses after her name. John smiled softly and put the card down, mentally making a note to compliment her on her art skills. The next was signed by the entire quidditch team, with a rude limerick from the team's seeker Bill and an awful pun about being stabbed from the chaser Georgia, who had no self-restraint, but John was used to that by now. 

He suddenly wondered about his wound, about the scar it would have left. Would it be utterly grotesque and disgusting to look at? Probably. It's not like it is in the movies, he reminded himself. Scars aren't drawn on with plaster and paint, shaped to suit the person like an ornament. They aren't to be admired or romanticised, fawned over as people gush 'you're so brave!' then flirt with the soldier. Scars are at best intriguing to those in the forensic or medical profession, at worst hideous to behold. He had a few scars from muggle football or from falling off broomsticks. They're hardly pretty to look at. This is probably worse, John sighed internally, envying Harry Potter's lightning shaped scar, the kind of thing people would intentionally draw on their skin with a needle and ink. He decided to postpone scar inspection and Harry Potter envy for later. 

Greg had signed the next card in wobbly handwriting and devoid of his usual jokes and friendly comfort. John supposed that Greg was busy with whatever the hell seventh years do about this point in the school year and moved on. There was a card from Janine in French (John didn't bother translating it to know it had the usual well-wishing that was required of people), a card from McGonagall (infamous for her Gryffindor favouritism), then finally a card with Sherlock's shorthand scribble on the envelope. John picked the envelope up, heart thumping warmly in his chest, a smile forming on his face. He knew it was needlessly romantic and cliche (he could see Sherlock rolling his eyes and scoffing in his mind's eye, saying "it's the same as everyone else's card, with the usual 'get well soon I miss you' message.") but he took his time opening it, admiring the effort Sherlock had gone through to get the card: wasn't an easy task getting Sherlock to leave the castle to go to Hogsmeade. 

The card was plain, with just a moving picture of various brooms (John realised, in that moment, that he needed a knew hobby) zooming around the front, and thankfully not the unspeakably sickly-sweet kind of card that John's previous ex-girlfriends had been prone to getting him after a quidditch injury.

"Don't get all sappy, I was the one who went out and got that for him." 

John jumped, then looked up. Molly was standing next to the bed: pale, dark circles under her eyes, yet smiling comfortingly. "I didn't know it was lunch yet," John stated, placing the card down on the table beside him. 

"Flitwick let me leave early to come and visit you." 

"That's nice of him. I'm guessing Sherlock and Greg's professors aren't being quite as nice, then?"

Molly bit her lip, averted her eyes towards the ground. "Greg - isn't feeling well."

John's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "Oh no. Is it serious?" 

"It's - difficult to say."

"Why isn't he here? In the infirmary"

"He can't leave his dorm. It's going to be okay, though." Molly gave a weak smile. John wasn't sure whether he believed it. 

"And Sherlock? What about him?"

"He's not in school."

"What?" John sat up. "Why?"

Molly made a shushing noise and placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "Hey, it's fine. Don't stress about it - stress will slow down recovery time. He's just doing some research."

"On what?"

Molly inhaled, her eyebrows creasing. She's conflicted, John realised. "I - don't like keeping things from you. But the nurse said that we need to keep you from becoming stressed."

"Keeping things from me makes me bloody stressed!"

"I know - I know. But I promise everything will be explained the moment the nurse says you're in a stable enough condition to hear it. Now, how about some chocolate frogs, eh?"

"The nurse said not to eat too much sugar."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of rebellion."

"I'm not hungry."

"'Course you are. You just don't know it yet."

John grumbled, "lying here comatose hardly burns calories."

"You'd be surprised. I'll eat some too if it encourages you." Molly grabbed a chocolate frog and opened the packet, eating the chocolate swiftly and reading the card inside. 

"Who d'you get?"

"Hermione Granger. Again."

"Oh. Bad luck." As John bit into his own chocolate, he heard gentle, tired footsteps approaching. Looking up, he saw Greg standing at the other side of the bed. If Molly had looked tired and emotionally drained, Greg was grey with exhaustion. The bags under his eyes were defined and dark, his eyes lacking the teasing, cheerful glint it usually had. His hair was dishevelled, unbrushed, sticking up at awkward angled like he had just woken up (which, John contemplated, he probably had). He wasn't wearing his uniform - rather, a loose fitting t-shirt and crumpled jeans. When John's gaze fell back on Greg's face, he saw that he wasn't smiling. Not even remotely. Instead, he nodded at John and stated simply, "McGonagall said you were awake."

"You didn't have to come and visit me," John said, "you look like hell. You're ill."

Greg glanced at Molly and nodded at her minutely, then responded, "Nah, it's better if I try and walk around a bit. Get out of the dorm. That's what the new nurse said."

"Speaking of which, why is there a new nurse?" John around at the two faces. "He said that Madam Pomfrey had - retired? That doesn't seem like her. She loves her job."

"I- I really can't say." Molly stuttered out.

"You can't or you won't?"

"When did Nurse Phillips say we could tell him?" Greg asked, directed at Molly. 

"When he's stable."

"When will that be?"

"He predicted a week." 

"A week?!" Both John and Greg yelled at the same time. 

"What the hell happened to me - "

"He can't wait an entire week! He'll hear about it soon enough - "

"I'm sick of being treated like I'm fragile - "

"He has rights!"

"Whatever it is it can't be that bad - "

"Stop it!" Both Greg and John fell into silence. Molly glared at the two boys. "I'll propose a deal, okay? Sherlock comes back tomorrow." Molly glanced at John, whose face remained unreadable. "He should hear it from him."

Greg looked at John for a response. "I'm okay with that. John?"

John shrugged, still looking sullen, then nodded, "yes. Fine. I don't understand why it's necessary, but sure." 

"Good."

The conversation flitted between topics: school, quidditch, hogsmeade, chocolate frog cards. John managed out a chuckle or two without wincing. Greg huffed in amusement, not quite a laugh. John, not for the first time, was thankful for Molly Hooper holding the conversation together. Soon they were ushered out by Nurse Phillips, telling them to come back at the end of the day.

"One last thing," John raised his voice, and the two friends turned to face him. "What happened with the triwizard tournament? Who won?"

"The money is going to split between you and Janine."

"They figured out Moran was the killer?"

"Yes. Too late, though. He's left the castle."

John's flared with anger. "They - let him leave?"

"No. The ministry is hunting him down now. He's good at hiding though."

John inhaled harshly, gritting his teeth. "He just slipped through their fingers. The teachers, the ministry. And Mycroft - he's practically part of the ministry now, and he's head boy!"

"Don't bring Mycroft into this," Greg glared.

"I'm just saying - "

"Well, don't," Greg snapped and Molly winced. "I don't want to talk about him." With that he left, heavy angry footsteps echoing down the halls, dimming into nothing. 

John glanced up at Molly. "Trouble in paradise?"

Molly stared down the hall, and murmured softly. "You have no idea." 

Soon John was left alone, fuming with anger and confusion. 

The day went by without event: a lunch, the quidditch team visiting, Molly returning, Wizard Chess. John quickly lost interest in anything but sleeping.

The other cards and sweets were left abandoned. 

~

When John woke up again, it was dark. And warm. And there was an added weight to the blankets. 

John tried to sit up, but he was dragged back down to the mattress by something - an arm. The weight grumbled something unintelligible into his shoulder in a baritone voice.

"Sherlock?" John whispered. "What are you - I thought you won't be back until tomorrow."

"Sshh. I'm back now. Let me sleep." 

And so Sherlock buried further into the crook of John's neck, and John, though he had a million questions that needed answering threatening to burst through, he held his tongue and went to sleep, his arm wrapped around Sherlock, and their legs intertwined. He didn't fail to notice how Sherlock purposefully kept his hands away from John's wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. There were exams, then other stuff too, causing serious writers block. And general losing enthusiasm for this fanfiction. That happened.
> 
> But I will continue writing this, if you want it. I'll probably get back into it. And I have a plan: don't worry, this will end happily.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John reunite and some things are explained to John

When Sherlock woke up the next morning after a slightly less troubled than usual sleep, he knew from the warmth of a smaller body next to him and the harsh texture of the plain starched mattress that he was still in John's bed, which surprised him, as he assumed that someone would have ushered him away at this point. Nonetheless, he decided not to question it, and he scooter over closer to John, wrapping himself around him, breathing in his scent, a small smile forming for the first time in days - 

"Ow!"

Sherlock jolted upwards, moving his limbs away from John like he was fire. "What happened? Did I hurt you?"

"Yeah you did a bit." John was now sitting straight up against the pile of pillows and clutching his side, grimacing. "Just...don't put your hand anywhere near there."

"Sorry." Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed nervously. "Do you want me to - "

"No, stay." John budged over and patted the small area of mattress next to him, yawning. "I'm awake now. You made sure of that."

"Again, I'm so sorry - "

"Stop apologising. Come here." John brought Sherlock into a loose hug, his arms resting around his shoulders. Sherlock reciprocated, careful not to harm John and squeeze too hard. But he relished in the hug and all the stress from the past few days was released. He inhaled shakily and mumbled "I missed you" into John's hair. 

"You wouldn't have had to if you were actually in school," Sherlock heard John respond, only semi-joking. He pulled back from the hug. "I have questions, you know, and no one's told me a thing."

"I know. I'd be surprised if you didn't have questions." Sherlock moved so he was sitting cross-legged in front of John. Otherwise, John would have had to turn his head a lot to talk to Sherlock, which would have hurt him even more. "You should know it wasn't my idea to keep everything from you. I'm just sorry I couldn't be here to tell you." 

"Where were you then?" John hadn't meant to sound accusing, but Sherlock winced nonetheless, so John breathed out slowly and apologised. "Can we just start simple? Did you eat while you were gone?" John's eyes traced Sherlock's face - Sherlock knew that his cheekbones were now ever more prominent, the dark bags swollen under his eyes, the pale skin that had, since John last saw him, grown ashen and dry. Sherlock felt his face heat up guiltily. "My mother got me to eat sometimes." 

"Sometimes?"

"I was mostly locked in my room reading. My choice."

John's frown deepened. "So, you left the school to...read? Sherlock, we have a library for a reason."

"No, not just to read," Sherlock sighed irritably. "there was a family event. Gathering." 

"Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I napped. Not the same thing, apparently." Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, explicitly referring to previous rants on John's half that Sherlock had been hearing for six years. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, I go into a coma for - what, five days? - and your health goes to shit." Sherlock's lips twitched, a shadow of amusement. "I didn't realise I had such influence over you."

"Of course you do." Sherlock seemed surprised. "I'd probably be half dead by now if weren't for you babying me for six years."

"Oi, shut up," John laughed slightly, then winced again and clutched his stomach. Sherlock opened his mouth to ask if John was okay, but John dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand, and continued. "So, this family gathering... is Mycroft still there, then? I haven't heard from him in a while."

Sherlock's eyes widened, then looked down at the blank duvet. He swallowed, fiddling with a loose thread. "That's one of things you should know, that they haven't told you yet," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

"What? What is it?" John reached over and took Sherlock's hand. He looked up, blinking furiously in an attempt to keep his vision clear and dry, and replied, voice cracking, "Mycroft is dead."

For a painful second, John froze entirely. Then he whispered, "Oh God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock sniffed, aggressively wiping tears from his cheek. "What's to be sorry about? You didn't kill him."

"Who - I know. But I'm sorry. God, if I had known, I wouldn't have said - "

"I know. It's not your fault." Sherlock's eyes locked with John's. "It's mine. I shouldn't have left. But I had to."

"Why did you have to leave? The funeral?"

"Yes. And a hearing." Sherlock cleared his throat." And I had some research to do."

"Research? Hearing?" John winced. "Sorry, I shouldn't ask so many questions."

"John, what's the point of you if you don't ask questions?" Sherlock gave a watery smile. "My detective career relies entirely on your curiosity and ignorance of basic facts."

"So I'm allowed to ask you to tell me what happened? From the beginning?"

"I'm not - I'm not the story teller of the two of us."

"I don't mind." John stroked a thumb over Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock almost fell apart again at the gesture. Almost.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began. 

"What we're facing, this new threat, begins long before the night of your attack. Do you remember how in the Summer there was a serial killer around Sussex, stabbing all of his victims to death, including a cousin of mine. Though I didn't know this at the time, he was making his way towards me, getting closer and closer geographically, until my second cousin was killed barely 5 miles from my own home - don't apologise, I didn't know her well. You were to be the final victim. 

"You were stabbed by Sebastian Moran - I'm guessing you already knew this seeing as you were facing him when you were attacked. The blade was laced with Dark Magic, which means that your blood loss was higher than the norm and it will almost definitely leave a scar. However, Moran stabbed you in the side, avoiding vital arteries and organs. He also used your wand to shoot red sparks into the air, alerting the professors quickly to come to your aid and avoiding being seen at or associated with the scene of the crime by not using his own wand. You see, unlike the other victims, he never meant to kill you; it was a warning directed at me. 

"The next day I received a letter from 'M' in handwriting I didn't recognise, telling me to meet them in the infirmary at midnight. They had the upper hand; I couldn't change the location or not go. They were to be here, in the same room as you, barely 12 hours out of surgery, and I had to be there too, if only to keep my eye on you. Mycroft tried to convince me not to go, and I'm sure you would have done too. I went anyway.

"When I came into the infirmary, you weren't in your bed. It was also surprisingly quiet and there was an absence of Madam Pomfrey. Naturally, I panicked and assumed the worst, but then you appeared standing in the middle of the room, talking in a monotone and with pale eyes. I knew then that, though thankfully alive - which I think is more than I can say about Madam Pomfrey, unfortunately - you were being controlled with the Imperius curse by 'M'. He entered the room soon enough, accompanied by two of his allies, one of whom was Moran. The other was Mary."

"Mary?!" John all but yelled. "Wait, as in Mary Morstan? Mary, my ex Mary?"

"Yes. The thing is, Moriarty - oh, that's his name, by the way - kept calling her a different name. Alissia."

"What - why - I'm so confused." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Am I stupid?"

"You're not stupid. Impatient, yes. Not stupid. I haven't even finished my story yet and you're already insulting yourself." Sherlock sniffed, words lacking any harshness, too tired for it.

"So Moran had you released from the Imperius upon Moriarty's orders, and you collapsed and fell back into your coma. Moriarty talked some more. He said he is working his way up...something. A criminal hierarchy. He's going to be a master criminal, take over."

"Like Voldemort?"

"No - he was very touchy about that comparison. He wants to take over both worlds, without prejudice towards one or the other. In fact, I think he could be more dangerous than Voldemort because of this. 

"He left, along with his henchpeople, I carried you back to your bed and Mycroft came in. We argued, Moriarty heard, came back, and tied us up, trapping us there. He monologued, talking about how Mycroft would stand in his way, working for the ministry and all that. So he... Mary..." Sherlock's words were cut of by a choked sob. "He ordered Mary to kill 

John's eyes widened. "No."

"Yes. And she did it. But before you...get angry, you should know that I think she was acting under an unbreakable vow."

"And that makes killing people morally acceptable?"

"No. But now she can't leave Moriarty. She can't do any less than what he expects of her. The unbreakable vow leaves no room for regret."

"Why would she make it in the first place?"

"That's why I left school for so long," Sherlock explained. "I was doing research on her. And Moran and Moriarty, with some ministry files that without Mother's position at the Ministry, I wouldn't have got access to. 

"Mary was born Alissia Grace Rosamund Adams. She grew up with death eater parents during the second wizarding war, and was frequently used as a spy for her parents, so from a young age she had learnt to control and use her magic for her parents' benefit. When her parents were killed in the war and the death eaters defeated, she was adopted by family in France and had her name changed. This was probably either to keep her identity a secret for protection or out of shame. So when Moriarty came along offering her power, the ability to fulfil her magical potential, as well as revenge on you and me, she took it, without really knowing what she was agreeing too. Or maybe she did, and whatever ideology her parents had drilled into her was still there. Either way, she's missing with Moriarty and Moran.

"There's very little to talk about with Moran. He's an orphan and has most likely been in league with Moriarty since before the tournament. He allowed Moriarty into the tournament.

"In terms of Moriarty, I could find no files on him. There were no birth certificates, no school or hospital records, no family links, no criminal records. The only evidence for his existence is my word for it."

"So what did the Aurors say when you told them?" John asked. "Are they going to start looking for him?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shook his head. "I came up on the stand, and I told them everything I knew. Some believed me. But most of them...they just kept asking me questions. Some even laughed when I said that Moriarty was involved in both the muggle and wizarding worlds. One man asked," Sherlock lowered his voice into a nasal imitation "'how do we know you didn't kill your brother? My son Phillip tells me there was a rivalry between the two of you.'"

"Phillip? Phillip Anderson?" 

"I'd assume so. Only that line of genetics would say something so completely idiotic." Sherlock spat out the last two words bitterly. "How could he possibly suggest something like that?"

"Did people actually believe that?" John asked incredulously. Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't think so. But the doubt was enough to prevent an attempt at finding Moriarty. The Minister said that there is no point wasting resources and time on a man that leaves no evidence of existing. Not until he emerges again." 

"So that's what you were reading the files for? To try and find him yourself?" 

Sherlock nodded. "But other than Mar- Alissia and Moran, I have no leads. They could be anywhere." Sherlock' chest felt heavy as he said this, his voice cracking, the frustration and despair building up and overflowing. "I don't know what to do."

"What can you do? You're not even of age, Sherlock," John said gently. "Maybe you should listen to the Minister and wait."

"But he's still out there! He's gathering allies and resources as we speak!" A feeble attempt at yelling came out as a watery croak and he felt his eyes sting with tears again. "We could be...looking in muggle CCTV footage! Using international records and files! Or something, I don't know. Anything would be better than just sitting here." 

"Sherlock, sshh, calm down." John attempted to move over and kneel in front of Sherlock, but his injury must have protested his movements, causing him to curse under his breath and lay back against the pillows again. "Can you - can you come here for now?" Sherlock complied and crawled over to John, buried himself under the duvet and rested his head on John's shoulder as John stroked Sherlock's hair and rested his head above Sherlock's. "It's going to be alright, you know. If Moriarty comes back - "

"When."

"If," John persisted. "Try to be optimistic here, Sherlock. If he comes back, we'll go looking for him."

"Really?"

"Yes. Absolutely." John kissed Sherlock's forehead, making Sherlock smile slightly. 

If he could have, Sherlock would have laid there in silence for hours, nothing but the sound of their unified breathing and the comfort of John's fingers in his hair. But all too soon, the new nurse came and kicked Sherlock out so that John could have some alone time. "I imagine you'll need to get ready for the day too. See friends, find out what you've missed," the nurse added in a friendly voice, which made Sherlock all the more irritated. He got out of the bed, put on the shoes he had taken off the previous night before climbing into John's bed, then kissed John briefly on the lips . "I'll be back soon." He promised, ignoring any protests the nurse may have had, then left to Ravenclaw common room, where he immediately fell back into bed and closed his eyes, too drained to talk to anyone, friends or otherwise.


	24. Chapter 24

The final day of school thankfully came quickly, after weeks of classes and homework and fiercely pretending that everything was back to normal.

It wasn't of course. For one, people stared at John and Sherlock more frequently now as they walked down the corridors, hand in hand together; that's the boy who got stabbed, that's the boy whose brother died, they're the cute couple who nearly got killed. It set John on edge, especially when the whispering started, and his jaw ached from grinding and gritting his teeth so often. Sherlock ignored it, knowing full well this would be their reputation for a while. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead of him and squeezed John's hand for comfort. Merlin knows that's what they both needed. 

The grief was another thing that was new and could never go away, the heavy, stifling mourning that suffocated the castle, but especially the few in particular who knew Mycroft well, who were close enough to John and Sherlock to be terrified by what happened. 

Still, life went on. John worked hard to heal using the simple exercises the nurse gave him and various potions he had to take daily, so that by the end of the week he could walk without a limp and sit down and stand without hissing through his teeth and pressing a hand to his abdomen like it was still bleeding. The pain would never really leave, but it was at least tolerable for the moment. He also threw himself into his schoolwork, pushing himself to catch up with his classmates and work until his mind was too exhausted to even think about that night in the maze. Sherlock didn't really put much effort into any of the tasks and essays and research the professors gave him, but that wasn't much of a change. Still, the fact that he did this without his usual proud and stubborn exclamations of the pointlessness of the tasks worried his professors and friends. He was unusually and unbearably silent. What was even more worrying, he rarely tried to correct anyone. Anderson noticed this change more than most.

At night, when neither Sherlock nor John had the company or the work or the sounds of life in the castle to distract them, the silence and loneliness would settle and memories would come back in tidal waves. Nightmares, flashbacks, images plagued them both. But it eased slightly when Sherlock took to sneaking into the Gryffindor dorm rooms and into John's bed, where they would do nothing except hold each other close and breathe in each other's presence. If one woke up screaming or sobbing or unable to breathe the other was there to whisper words of comfort and rub slow circles into his back until they both calmed down enough to fall asleep again. The staff and students apparently turned a blind eye to this, even if it violated a couple of rules. 

The Beaubatons and Durmstrangs left quickly and quietly on a cloudy day at the end of the month. The students were allowed to say their goodbyes, and around John were hundreds of students saying goodbye tearfully and exchanging addresses. Among those were Janine and Sherlock. Well, Janine more so than Sherlock. John hung back awkwardly and watched them talk in rapid French, wishing he could understand them.

"You will write to me?" Janine asked as she wrote an address on Sherlock's hand. "Tell me how you're feeling?"

Sherlock nodded. "You too, remember. You've had a shock over the last couple of weeks too."

"You mean Mary?" Janine's tear stained face contorted into a scowl and she sniffed. "Couldn't care less about her. Her parents were Death Eaters and she's gone to work for a criminal. I'd rather just forget about her."

"Me too. But I don't think that will happen any time soon." Sherlock wrote his own address on Janine's hand. "I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to win the tournament fairly. A joint win is hardly anyone's ideal scenario."

"I'm sorry you lost your brother." 

Sherlock nodded, his lips pressed in a tight line. "Thank you." His words came out hoarsely. That, at least, John was able to understand. He came up beside Sherlock and took his hand in his while addressing Janine in broken French that he had learnt in primary school. "Au revoir, Janine."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Au revoir, Jean. J'espère que tu te sens mieux."

John frowned up at Sherlock for a translation. "She hopes you are feeling better." He explained, and John nodded back at Janine.

"Oui. Merci."

Soon the exchange students left and Hogwarts was that little bit quieter again. 

On the final day, Sherlock and John said goodbye to Molly and Greg on the platform. Molly hugged everyone fiercely, made them promise to write to her "Especially you, Greg. You have a new job now and I want to hear all about it." Greg looked considerably less tired and ill than he did when John had first seen him in the infirmary room, but he still seemed in no mood to be working. Still, a job was a job and he had had it available for months now, as he had reasoned when his new bosses had visited him to offer him time off. 

They got into the train, going off into their, Greg with his friends, Molly with hers, John and Sherlock alone together. Sherlock sat with his head leaning against John's shoulder, his eyes shut as though sleeping.

John stared out of the window as the train set off. "Next year is going to be out last year," he observed in awe. "That's going to feel weird."

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment, his mind racing at 100 miles an hour and his heart beating nervously in his chest, so fast that he was certain John could feel it. "I don't want to go back next year."

John turned to face Sherlock, who was now sitting up, his blue eyes wide and vulnerable. "What?"

"I've been doing some thinking," Sherlock breathed shakily. "And I don't think staying another year will be beneficial to me or my career."

"Beneficial?" John huffed out a small, humourless laugh. "It's our NEWT year, Sherlock, of course it's beneficial."

"Well, I invented my career and I say NEWTs aren't required. Why should I stay to learn divination and potions and charms when I can get a head start on my consulting business?"

"Because you're barely of age and can't take care of yourself? You can't drop out of school Sherlock." John felt something close to anger rise up inside him, but he suppressed it. The last thing Sherlock needed right now was his boyfriend ranting at him about the importance of education. "What about your parents?"

"They'll be fine with it. They support my consulting detective idea," Sherlock said dismissively. 

"I don't think you've thought this through. Where will you live? How do you start a consulting business with minimal qualifications? Who will be there for the flashbacks and nightmares?" John's voice raised in volume. "What about me? What will I do without you in school?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor. "You'll be fine without me. Better even."

"Better?!" John repeated incredulously. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, I am not better without you. Have you any idea what effect you've had on me the past week? How much you've been helping?"

"How about the effect on you before that when you were used as bait against me?" Sherlock snapped back. "None of this would have happened if we didn't have the strong attachment we have."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what are you trying to say?" John's voice cracked nervously. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"I'm saying that I'm choosing a dangerous career path and I'm going to be making a few enemies. I've already made one and because of that you got seriously hurt. I'm not willing to let that happen to you again. We'd be better off - "

"Together. We're better off together," John interrupted insistently. "Yes, it's dangerous, but I agreed to be your partner, didn't I? I knew that there would be danger."

"You didn't know about Moriarty. Neither of us did."

"Well, now we do and we're going to be prepared for him and anyone else who comes along." John took Sherlock's hands in his own. "You need people to help you. You can't just push everyone away to protect them, you're just pushing yourself into more danger."

"I'd rather me than - "

"Don't." John shook his head. "I'd rather neither of us. And the best way we can do that is by sticking together. Besides," John continued, "if, hypothetically, we were to break up and never talk again, can you honestly guarantee my safety now that Moriarty knows who I am and my ex-girlfriend is working for him?"

Sherlock sighed and mumbled, "I suppose not. But - "

"Nope. No. No buts. You can break up with me if you don't like me any more. If you honestly think we /both/ will be better off without the other. But not because of some stupid hero complex you have." John stroked back a lock of Sherlock's hair. "Is that a reason why you didn't want to go to school? So we wouldn't have to be together?"

Sherlock bit his lips and felt his face heat with shame. "A bit. Partially. I had other reasons too that still have to be taken into account." 

"You're still considering dropping out?!"

"It's a waste of time - "

"It's not just lessons though. There's food and beds and your friends," John paused before adding, "And me." 

This made Sherlock waver, knowing how dependent to each other they've become. "I'd visit you."

"Hogwarts doesn't allow visitors that aren't family or important Ministers."

"My mum is an important Minister."

"You can't use that as an excuse for everything." John nudged Sherlock, attempting to appear playful and light-hearted. "Just stay in school. For me?"

"But my consulting business- "

"The world can survive another year without it." 

"Not if Moriarty gains power in that time," he argued back.

"It's not your responsibility to stop him, remember. We have Aurors and muggle police and the Ministry for a reason."

"What good have they done since?!The man who stabbed my boyfriend and killed my brother is still at large. They're not even looking for him!" Sherlock shot back, his voice cracking. John's forehead creased in concern and he took Sherlock's hand, stroking his thumb over the back of it. Sherlock took a deep breath to steady himself. "My mental capacities match his, so I should be the one to find him."

"I'm sure your mental capacities are far superior." Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, but John continued softly nonetheless. "Give him a year's head start. You'll catch up with him."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did, didn't I?" He replied deadpan, smirking softly, resorting to humour as he felt the conversation drawing to a close. He brought his hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek. "It'll be alright. I swear it." He sounded so certain, so confident in Sherlock that Sherlock's eyes pricked dangerously with tears. He blinked rapidly then exhaled shakily. "Ok."

John smiled then pressed his lips to Sherlock's, soft and slow, but conveying vividly everything they both needed to say. 

The train started moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a while. My exams are over, thank god, and I am much less busy.
> 
> The next chapter will come quickly - it's an epilogue I've had drafted for ages if you guys are interested in that.


	25. Chapter 25 - epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11 years later

John came tumbling into the living room of 221b Baker Street through the fireplace, covered in white soot and cursing colourfully at the slight pain he felt as he landed on the floor.

“It’s been seven years and you still haven’t been able to do that gracefully,” Sherlock said humouredly from the arm of the sofa he was resting his head against, lying on his back in his ‘thinking’ position. John stood up, brushing his hospital robes down, and walked over to him.

“I’d like to see you try it one day. See if you can travel via fireplace without breaking something.” John knelt down to kiss Sherlock anyway, as was routine whenever he came back from work. Sherlock leaned up to receive it compliantly. “Get anything done today?” John asked, stroking Sherlock’s hair. The contented hums and purrs Sherlock would make from this action irresistibly reminded John of a cat, as he endlessly teased.

“Got some toes to experiment on from the morgue. And some scurvy grass from Molly.”

“Nice.” This system of Sherlock getting a new dead body part every few weeks or so from the morgue (as a favour from the woman who works there for getting her off a murder charge) for experiments had continued for so long that John was no longer phased by it. As long as Sherlock cleaned up and decontaminated after himself and didn’t place decomposing body parts near food. “So no cases then?”

“Nothing on the website. And Hopkins is convinced that the suicides are in fact ‘suicides’. Says she doesn’t need my help.”

“She’ll come round eventually.” John retracted his hand. “I’m going to have a shower, try and clean all this soot off me. I’ll leave the door unlocked if you feel like joining me."

“Joining you? You do actually want to get clean, don’t you?” he smirked.

“Nothing a bit of soap and water can’t fix afterwards.” John kissed his husband of four years softly, yet allowing for enough teasing movements and touches to promise for more and send a thrill down Sherlock's spine, then pulled away and walked towards the bathroom. Sherlock’s heart rate had increased immensely, and he felt tangibly the loss of John’s body heat. Two can play at that game, the detective thought to himself smugly as he waited a few minutes, knowing John would be getting impatient soon too.

He was just about to enter the bathroom, when he heard someone – female – running up the stairs. He sighed, then returned to the living room then opened the door, to be greeted by – as he predicted – Stella Hopkins, the muggle detective inspector of Scotland Yard, perspiring slightly and breathing heavily (asthma), her black tied back air frizzing and sticking out at the top of her head.

“Another one?” Sherlock asked. The detective inspector nodded.

“In Brixton.”

“I’m guessing this one is different.”

“What makes you say that?”

“What other reason can you have for asking me for help after that eloquent speech you gave me this morning about letting you ‘do your damn job’.”

Stella rolled her eyes. “Shut up. Yes, this one is different. It has a note, this time, and we’re stumped. Will you come?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. He suppressed the glow of excitement threatening to make itself known and nodded steadily. “Fine. John and I will follow behind later in a cab.”

Hopkins nodded. “Good. Thank you.”

She dashed back down the stairs, surprisingly quick for her height. Sherlock waited until he heard the front door slam shut, then rushed towards the bathroom door in a flurry of excitement. “Yes! John! We have a case!”

“What?” John shouted from the shower.

“A case! In Brixton. It’s a muggle one. Fourth serial suicide.”

The running water stopped, and within a minute John was out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and traces of shampoo lather left un-rinsed from his shoulders and hair. “You want me to come?”

“If you’re not too busy."

“No, I’d love to come. Let me just get changed first. Two minutes, then we can leave.”

John came out of his and Sherlock’s bedroom two minutes and 30 seconds later, dressed in a muggle plaid shirt and jeans, his hair damp and sticking up in all sorts of angles. Not that he or John would ever choose traditional wizard robes, even for ministry cases. But at wizard trials they forced themselves to dress in formal wizard attire.

They rushed down the stairs, putting on their coats, and exited the building onto the busy London road. Sherlock instantly called up a taxi and they hopped in. The taxi drove on.

After a few minutes of sitting in comfortable silence, John said, “So what’s so special about this one that made Hopkins want your help?”

“It’s the same as the others, in that they all took the same poison and were found in deserted areas that had no meaning to them, at least according to witnesses who knew them. Except,” Sherlock turned to look at John, his knee jogging up and down erratically, “this one has a note. Hopkins didn’t give the specifics, but I’m guessing it’s not exactly ‘this is my killer’s name and how to find them’. Even Lestrade wouldn’t need my assistance for deciphering it, if that was the case.” Sherlock thought of the man with amusement and mild affection. He had become an auror working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and was gradually working his way up the work ladder. Sherlock’s occupation meant that they often ran into each other on wizarding world-related cases, and he had observed from a distance how slowly, yet surely, Lestrade was getting on with his life in the aftermath of his bereavement. In the past ten years Lestrade had received two promotions, started dating, had three relationships, the current one Lestrade was considering moving in with, Sherlock had deduced.

“Don’t hold your expectations of him too high.” John quipped, and Sherlock scoffed in response.

By the time they arrived it was almost completely dark and the cold January wind bit at their faces as they climbed out of the cab. While Sherlock was already speeding over to the yellow police tape marking the crime scene, he assumed that John had paid the cabbie and would follow behind him shortly. He ducked under the tape without need to give ID to the policewoman standing next to the tape. They’d done this enough times for everyone in Scotland Yard to know who they were.

John caught up with Sherlock as they entered the block of flats the suicide-murder had taken place. It was completely abandoned, with no furniture and plastic covers covering dust coated banisters. The floor boards were creaking and a cold draught made its way through every corner of the house. Sherlock spotted how John couldn’t suppress a cold, nervous shiver as he put the blue protective suit and latex gloves on. Sherlock was already dashing up the stairs, having only bothered with the gloves. Scotland Yard trusted him enough to not contaminate the crime scene. His experience and pristine sense of hygiene was enough.

The room of the dead body was lit up by the lights the Yard had brought. The wall paper was peeling and there were dead flies at the one, small windowsill in the room. Sherlock looked down at the body. It was face-down, but he could see enough from where he was standing: female, early forties, married, dressed entirely in the same hideous shade of pink, right down to her painted fingernails. Her hair was messy and slightly damp, weather beaten.

“So what do you think?” Hopkins came into the room finally, John behind her. Sherlock finally approached and crouched beside the dead body.

“Give me five minutes.” He ordered. “Alone.”

“Alone?”

“You’re thinking too loudly. It’s annoying.” Hopkins sighed, mumbled something under her breath, but she complied. John stayed in the corner, arms folded.  
“Should I leave the room too?”

“Not at all. Your insight is always welcome, John.”

“And not the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard?” John’s lips twitched.

“Of course not. She and her entire forensics team couldn’t solve the case after three dead bodies. This woman -“ Sherlock gestured to the body on the floor – “needs the best minds to solve this case, and it just so happens that the next best one available is yours.”

“How charming.” John knelt on the other side of the woman’s head and Sherlock watched in amusement as John started to examine her: sniffing her fingernails, pulling back her hair to observe her face, sniffing her lips, feeling her skin on her cheek. Then he drew back to look at Sherlock. “She’s been dead ten, eleven hours I would say. Self-poisoning. No sign of alcohol consumption, as far as I can tell.”

“Excellent"

“You have anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock grinned as he crouched by the body, observing her jewellery (clean necklace, dirty ring except from polished interior: adulteress), her coat (wet collar, dry umbrella), her nails (bright pink to match her coat, the left-hand nails scratched from her carving into the wooden floorboards). He quickly researched something on his phone, before looking at the word next to her hand: rache. German, noun: revenge. Motive? Unlikely. He thought of the possibilities for what else it could mean – was she intending to write more, before her inconveniently timed death? Yes.

Hopkins re-entered the room with some of the forensics team and leant against the door frame as she said, “Time’s up. What can you tell us?”

Sherlock inhaled, then stood up and started rapidly listing his deductions.

“Female, early to mid forties, working in something in the media, judging by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She was married for ten or more years but not happily. She had a string of lovers. At the time before her death she had been in Cardiff over night, judging by the size of her suitcase – “

“Suitcase?!”

“Suitcase, yes. Speaking of which, where is it?” He spun around the room, eyes daring back and forth for it.

“If you’re just making all of this up –"

Sherlock sighed loudly. “Look, she has all her jewellery cleaned except for her ring, which is around ten years old, state of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is cleaned, polished from being removed regularly, so she has a string of lovers. Not just one, there’ no way she’d be able to keep up the persona of being single for so long, so there are multiple. Her collar is wet, so she had it turned up against the wind and rain, but it was too windy for her umbrella. There are mud splatters on her leg from dragging the suitcase – “ he gestured at the body – “ and it shows the size of the suitcase there. She was staying overnight somewhere. And where in the last twenty four hours has it been raining? Cardiff.” He showed the screen of his phone to the room, hearing John cry out some form of praise, then started talking again.

“So where is the suitcase. Come on, did she eat it?”

“Sherlock, there was no case.” Hopkins sighed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “No one has taken it?”

“No, you know how forensics works, everything has been left as it was found.”

“Well then, the killer must have it.”

“What if she just left it at the hotel?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “No, look at her hair! The rest of her is pristine – nails, clothes, the majority of her jewellery. Her hair is messy, blown up by the wind. She’d have never left the hotel looking like that, without her makeup and hair stuff wi – oh. OH!”

Sherlock dashed out of the room, coat billowing behind him, the cogs in his head racing. He rushed down the stairs, only stopping when Hopkins called him.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a serial killer, Hopkins. That much is definite. They’re hard, serial killers. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“And did they?

“Oh yes,” Sherlock grinned, then exited the building in a rush of excitement.

“Wait – Sherlock – what mistake?!”

He yelled up the staircase, “Pink!"

~

John and Sherlock leant back against the wall, breathless and laughing and full of adrenaline after running from Angelo’s through London to chase after a cab that had turned out to be the wrong one, the passenger being a confused American tourist as opposed to a cunning serial killer.

“I just chased after a potential serial killer in a cab,” John breathed out, giggling, “Yet somehow, that’s not the stupidest thing I’ve ever done."

Sherlock swallows back the retort “yes, you entered the tri-wizard tournament” as it was generally an unspoken rule that the tournament was to go unmentioned as much as possible. It had brought them both more loss and pain than glory and fortune. Instead he opted for, “Yes, you married me.”

“Best decision I ever made,” John replied firmly. “Could never be stupid.”

Normally Sherlock would hate that he made a mistake, especially one so simple as which cab would have a serial killer in it or not. Mistakes like these normally sparked sulking and tempers and refusals to eat or sleep. However, between the endorphins and adrenaline, the way John’s face was flushed and his chest was rising and falling quickly as his breaths came out in pants, and the way Sherlock’s chest tightened fondly at John’s comment, Sherlock couldn’t care less about the taxi passenger. He moved so he was pressed against John and pinning him to the wall, claiming his mouth with his own roughly and possessively.

As the kiss continued and increased with enthusiasm, the world shrunk until there were no more cabs to run after or serial killers to catch or hiding criminal masterminds to be forever paranoid about. As far as the last one was concerned, over time that fear had shrunk until Moriarty seemed like a bad dream, too long ago and far away to be worried over. Right here, right now, with John pressed against him and his arms wrapped tightly around his waist, they were safe and unafraid. After all these years without any sign of him or his people, what were the odds that they’d ever return?

It was only them against the rest of the world.

~

“God, don’t tell me they’re still going at it.”

“It’s only been two minutes, sir, have patience.”

Boss, as the young woman sitting at a computer desk had called him, raked a hand through slicked back, dark hair and groaned impatiently. There were multiple cameras on the inside and outside of the building, none of which had been discovered yet. The two men living there hadn’t even noticed that people had broken into the building a mere few days after they had first moved in there together. But then again, the operation was run smoothly and efficiently by Adams.

“Tell Hope he’ll have to wait for a bit. Half an hour, maybe. Can’t have him going up and abducting Sherlock in the middle of...that.”

He’d had it planned out, every single detail. He had known that Sherlock would look for the suitcase, contact the dead woman’s phone, would try to arrange a meeting and assume that the passenger would be the serial killer. What would come next that evening was also planned, relying on years of observing Sherlock and John’s behaviour and a gift for divination to account for every possible outcome. So far, everything was running smoothly.

“Sir,” a small voice piped up, and the man turned to face the source of the noise – a young man barely 18 years old with acne and a voice that still cracked on occasion, “Why are we always watching these two if we never actually do anything?”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he started to read the boy – two weeks under his employ, squib, hired after murdering his stepfather, needs the money for his family, wants excitement, wants to hold a gun again. The man’s lips stretched into a tight smile and he walked towards him. The boy stood up. “You’re the newbie, aren’t you?”

The boy nodded.

“You were hoping for a bit more action, right? Something more like what Adams and Egorov and Moran do?”

“The snipers? Hell yeah,” the boy grinned. The man struck him across the face and he fell to the floor with the force of it, the room falling silent and tense as though everyone had stopped breathing. The man crouched down beside the boy, who was clutching his cheek in shock. “What was that for?!"

“If you want to get to where they are at now, you have to do exactly as you are told,” the man hissed, “no questions asked. Got that? Say ‘yes, Mr Moriarty.’”  
“Yes, Mr Moriarty,” the boy grumbled. “Sorry, Mr Moriarty.”

“Good boy. Now be a dear and keep an eye on the screen for me. And the next time you speak out of turn,” Moriarty stood up, “you’ll be facing the other end of the snipers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it guys.
> 
> Thank you so much for every hit, kudos, bookmark, comment, recommendation, etc, etc. I've honestly really enjoyed writing this so I hope you've enjoyed reading it to.
> 
> If anyone's confused about the ending or wanting more, essentially the basic plot of BBC Sherlock will follow in the hypothetical sequel, except with less pining and no season 4 nonsense. 
> 
> Thanks again everyone!


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